


Sing for me

by siberianchan



Series: Sing for me [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Opera AU, and I will do it anyways, and am I supposed to rate this up to mature now?, because I LOVE revolutions, because my knowledge of Paris is shit tbt, plot resembles kinda sorta Phantom of the Opera, set in 1848, set in Dresden 1848, so basically it's another AU nobody ever asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 06:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 310,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9422228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siberianchan/pseuds/siberianchan
Summary: It is 1848, it is Opera and Yuuri Katsuki has just arrived from his former home Milan in Dresden to work as a chorus singer at the Semperoper. Starting over in a new country, surrounded by strangers is taxing, especially when the lead tenor is acting so contractionary towards you and when your own anxiety constantly has you on your toes.Still, Yuuri is determined to make it here. Coached and taught by a very eccentric man who lives under the opera house Yuuri reaches new heights of skill and fame - but how long can this last in the face of the impending revolution? And why had his teacher Viktor left the stage in the first place and gone into hiding?





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 01**

 

Dresden, May 1848

 

It would be all right, he told himself, looking at the building in front of him.

In the bright, clear afternoon air the Royal Court Theatre Dresden looked smaller than at night when it was alight with the soft glow of chandeliers, glistening against the darkness like a jewel bathed in the sweet air of late spring.

Yuuri drew a deep breath; last night, when he had looked at this place, it had appeared far more intimidating than now. It would be all right. He would do fine here. He could sing – sing well enough for the Scala at the very least and he was used to getting by with very little money, so the payment was no problem. He would probably try to find someone to share a place with, but Dresden was big and probably crawling with poor artists, looking for the same prospect. It would be all right.

His hand searched for the recommendation letter Maestro Celestino Caldini had written for him and with another deep breath, letter in hand, he wandered around the building towards a side entrance, leaving the grand staircase aside.

There was a bustling there, people entering and leaving all the time, and he waited a bit for a someone to slow down – and finally, finally a group of girls – ballet, probably, judging by their lithe physique and slim arms – bustled out, giggling.

Yuuri took a deep breath. “Excuse me!”

The girls stopped right in their tracks, turning to him, pale, thin faces questioning, noses upturned into a fashion that could have been almost coquettish if they hadn't been so young.

Yuuri was keenly aware that he was seized up and down and he swallowed. "I am looking for the director, if you could..."

“Music, acting or dance?” one asked, cutting him off.

“Singing.”

“Stage,” another one just mumbled, before being grabbed and dragged away.

Yuuri looked after them, at least until one of them turned around, looking back at him questioningly. That was his signal to quickly turn around and scuttle inside.

From inside the Court Theatre wasn't much warmer, at least not at the side corridor where he entered; the warmth would have to wait until he reached the main area, be it the great reception hall with its grand stairways and chandeliers or the corridors, rooms and closets of the backstage.

Opera houses and theatres by their very nature were a maze and it took three times of running past the same bloody beam before Yuuri finally found a small door that opened and – miracle of miracle – he found himself looking at the auditorium, dark and only illuminated from the stage side.

Yuuri took a glimpse inside.

The stage emitted a soft, yellow candle light that illuminated the gilded carvings and stucco of the ceiling, the walls, the boxes for the noblest audience of this place. Here and there, red velvet gleamed like embers in a fireplace.

On the stage, some more ballet girls were dancing an elegant choreography to a simple piano arrangement of a part of Mozart's “Magic Flute” that Yuuri recognized as the introducing song of Papageno.

The song ended and the girls rushed off the stage amidst a man yelling, "You done finally, good, go, go, don't have all day!"

Their place on the stage was taken by a man and a woman.

 

Yuuri patiently waited for the rehearsal to end, enjoying the duet and dialogue in which the two went through the lines of the three ladies as well as the arias of Tamino and the Night Queen.

From down, there came an impatient “Again!” and so, they started again.

 

The woman was a perfect cast. Her soprano was clear and sweet like spring water, but there was a certain edge to it; she herself was a striking appearance with dark hair and a skin that didn't need the candle light for its dark golden shimmer. Perfect for the Night Queen, able to evoke both gentle, kind starlight and threatening, all-encompassing darkness.

The Tamino was her perfect opposite, flaxen hair tied back to reveal a very slender, long neck and a fair face that was both very sharp and determined yet at the same time amazingly youthful.

His singing was just as sharp and punctuated, pointedly and not at all befitting for someone stricken with love.

They sang through their dialogue before there was a rumble from the chairs. "Stop! Stop! Yuroshka, stop, stop, stop!"

The singers looked down.

Yuuri followed their gaze to a grizzly looking old man in a suit and jacket that definitely had seen better days.

“Tamino's in love! At once! In! Love!”, he continued, “Sing with love, love, not like you try to... to... Sara, how would you feel if someone talked about you to your mother like that?”

The woman laughed, very melodically. "Like he's not in love and never has been in love before, but for some reason has to act like he is. Yuri is lucky that he's so pretty and so young. With someone less good-looking I'd be insulted. And with someone older, I would be too busy laughing to hit even one note." She cleared her throat. "On another note, if I showed someone a picture of my daughter and they sang like that I'd both feel insulted on her behalf and worried he might try to grab power from my hands instead of saving her as he was instructed."

“Yes. Yes, exactly. Yuri, sing more like in love! Sing as if you're happy to see her.”

“Well, sorry if hitting the notes don't make it sound love-sick and happy, me singing it wrong certainly won't!" The man was a boy, Yuuri suddenly realized. Probably not older than 17, perhaps even younger. And he was singing Tamino.

He had to be amazing to sing such roles at this age, amazing talent, amazing charisma, amazing willpower.

And amazing abilities of perception.

“Oi, Yakov, we got a visitor.”

Yuuri felt a collection of eyes falling upon him and briefly wondered whether it was too late to run and get back to Milan. Celestino would probably take him back in, right?

The man stared at him with dark, hard eyes and waved, impatiently, for him to come closer. “You, what do you want?”

Yuuri tightened his grip around Celestino's letter. “I... I heard you are looking for singers... wait, no... I am one of your new singers...”

The cool dark eyes took him in and Yuuri desperately wished he had at least taken the time to straighten up his suit or comb his hair, do anything to appear somewhat civilized.

“Where you from? What's your name?”

“Y... Yuuri Katsuki. I... I'm coming from Milan. Got schooled at the Teatro alla Scala.”

“Doesn't sound Italian to me. You don't _look_ Italian.”

If the ground beneath his feet decided to open up and swallow him, Yuuri would have been decidedly very, very grateful. “I am Japanese by birth.”

“Oh, but from Milan?” the woman on the stage chirped and then continued: “Sono le strade piene di gatti ancora qui?”

Her accent was Veronese, but Yuuri still felt a wave of relief. “Solo se da gatti si intende chi non ha una casa e del lavoro e troppe bocche da sfamare – oh, aspetta, ho pensato che si stava chiedendo su Napoli!”

She laughed. “Oh, finally, finally someone who gets the joke.” In a few years, she would make for a wonderful Pamina.

Mr. Feltsman, once again took a close look at him. “Good. Milan. Scala? Why you're here then?”

Yuuri swallowed hard. “Uh... Maestro Cialdini thought I might need a change and...”

A smaller stage had been his exact words, with an expression of sorrow and regret that still made Yuuri sick in his stomach. “He wrote ahead on my behalf and... uh, I also got this...” He handed the letter over.

Mr. Feltsman opened it and read it, brow carefully furrowed, while he gestured for Yuuri to come closer.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty and three.”

“Your voice range?”

“Tenor.”

“Countertenor?"

“Maestro Cialdini tried, but I was more suited to train towards baritone.”

Mr. Feltsman took a glance at him. "What were we practising just now?"

“Uh, Mozart's “Magic Flute”. The Night Queen is just convincing Tamino to go and rescue her daughter Pamina.”

The boy on the stage grumbled something that sounded somewhat like,“Well, everybody knows that.”

He nodded. "Good. Yuri, come down, let him sing it. I wanna see how he can do. Just to check. You, up there. Did you warm up already? No, you got five minutes."

Yuuri stared at the man, the woman, the boy, as they all looked at him.

“Well, what you waiting for? An invitation? A personal coach? Brandy?”

Yuuri flinched and then slowly retreated to the stairway that led to the area behind the curtain.

Finding a suitable spot he started warming up, singing octaves up and down, going higher and higher.

There was a throbbing behind his eyes, but he paid it no mind. His throat was doing its work, his voice was clear and powerful and he managed to jump about one and a half octaves without trouble.

Good. That was good.

He took a deep breath.

“Oi. Time's up, the old man's getting impatient.”

Yuuri turned around to see the other singer standing behind him. Up close he looked even younger, with skin so fair that he could see veins underneath and hair like spun gold. If he ever smiled, he'd probably look positively angelic, but for some reason, Yuuri doubted that there was ever any other expression than some degree of disdain on his delicate features.

“Uh, yes. Thanks.” He headed out, where the woman awaited him with a kind smile. She was extremely pretty, porcelain fine skin and eyes of a dark blue that was almost lilac.

“Sara Crispino,” she smiled with a cheerfully mocking curtsey.

“Good! Are the introductions done with? Great, get to work! You, start at the _Dies Bildnis_ verse, from top. Sara, you do the ladies again!"

Sara's face fell a bit, but then she took a breath. "As you say."

“Good. Georgi!”

The pianist, sharp-faced and angular, flinched. "YES!"

“You heard that! Third scene! Aria!”

“Yessir!” The man nodded sharply and started hammering on the piano.

Yuuri recognized the melody, humming a few notes before starting with Tamino's verse. “Dies Bildnis ist bezaubernd schön – Wie noch kein Auge je geseh'n. Ich fühl' es, wie dies Götterbild – Mein Herz mit neuer Regung füllt. Diess Etwas kann ich zwar nicht nennen!

Doch fühl' ichs hier wie Feuer brennen. Soll die Empfindung Liebe seyn?” His voice did its job, good.

Sara listened intently as he went through the verse until the very end.

“Was würde ich! - Sie voll Entzücken. And diesen heißen Busen drücken, Und ewig wäre sie dann mein.”

There was a moment of silence, only a quarter of a pause, in which he looked to her.

She offered him an encouraging smile before she started the spoken verses of the three ladies.

“Rüste dich mit Muth und Standhaftigkeit, schöner Jüngling! - Die Fürstin hat mir aufgetragen, dir zu sagen, daß der Weg zu deinem künftigen Glücke nunmehr gebahnt sey!”

Her declamation was full of pathos, very different from the cheerful chirping from before – well, she was acting, so that was normal, he mused, just as she finished, “Hat dieser Jüngling, sprach sie, auch so viel Muth und Tapferkeit als er zärtlich ist, o so ist meine Tochter ganz gewiss gerettet.”

He jolted, widening his eyes. “Gerettet? Oh ewige Dunkelheit! Was hör' ich! - Das Original?”

They played through the entire dialogue in which the ladies gave Tamino a briefing about how the abduction of Pamina had gone along, firing him up for the quest, before Sara finished, announcing the Queen with a loud, dramatic “Sie kommt! Sie kommt! Sie kommt!”

And in the next moment her voice seemed to switch, straight back to what it had been when Yuuri had listened in first.

Clear, and cutting-edge sharp she recited the verses in which the Queen introduced herself as a mourning, worried mother, before starting her aria. “Zum Leiden bin ich auserkohren; Denn meine Tochter fehlet mir, Durch sie ging all mein Glück verloren - Ein Bösewicht entfloh mit ihr!“

“Yes, yes, yes, Sara!” Yakov yelled and the piano died. “We know that bit, and we know you're in your position for a reason, yes!”

His gaze fell on Yuuri. "You, though... what parts have you performed so far?"

The excitement of the performance was wearing off. Yuuri swallowed. "No main roles. In Milan, I was mostly understudy... I... I sang the “Magic Flute“ before. One of the three boys. And the first Armored Man... occasionally one of the slaves."

“Hm.” Mr. Feltsman looked at him, sharply. “Let's be clear, if I said so you wouldn't find one moment of work here, I don't care whether you already got a contract promised and I care even less what your maestro has to say about you, because he showers you a bit too much with praise, considering your thin resume.”

An almost deafening wave of nausea was rising in him. Suddenly the floorboards were very far away.

But well, it wasn't like he hadn't expected this. He should have known. It wasn't news, after all.

“Anyway, we need some new voices, and you're not half-bad. You have a place in Dresden?”

What? Yuuri stared at him.

“You deaf? Not good – no?”

Yuuri shook his head, quickly.

“Good. So, you got lodgings here?”

“Nothing permanent. A room in an inn,” he admitted.

“Ah. Georgi, make sure he finds a place at your dormitories after we're done here,” Yakov ordered.

The man behind the piano saluted, long-fingered hand against a temple with cropped, brown hair. “Yessir!”

“Good. You!” He turned to Yuuri again.

Yuuri stiffened. “Yessir!”

“Cut it out, that's only funny when Georgi does it. Be back at eleven, we'll be done here then.”

“Yes.” Yuuri swallowed the “Sir.”

He waved his hand in the air. “Rehearsal for the chorus is at eight in the morning. Be on time. In two months we'll hold try-outs for Lortzing's “Wildschütz”, so prepare yourself if you want a part in that.”

Yuuri was about to nod again when he heard a soft "Tse" from behind the curtain.

The other singer stood there, looking at him with something like cool, hard contempt in his clear, bright green eyes.

What was wrong now?

Sara smiled. “It will be a bit confusing with two Yuris, right?” she chirped.

“Why?”, the other drawled, but his eyes grew colder by another few degrees. “Not like he'll be getting any big parts anytime soon.”

“Yuri, Sara, less gossiping, more singing! Yuri, you've heard how you should sing when you're in love?! More like this, will ya!”

There was some more grumbling from the boy who now rejoined Sara on the stage.

Yuuri slipped from the stage and away.

Eleven. That was in two and a half hours.

Enough time to take a look at this new town, this new place he would live from now on. Enough time to see whether it might in time even become a home.

 

In the end, he returned long before the pianist – Georgi, he remembered – was done. Since there was nothing else to do, he spent the time wandering the maze of corridors and crossroads and beams and lifts and cranes and doors, getting lost a few times, all the while mapping it out. After the thirteenth time, he had it mapped out somewhat – the dressing rooms for the ballet corps, male and female, strictly separated and probably chaperoned – the costume storerooms – the props room, next to it – the dressing room for the chorus, only one, so men and women probably changed in shifts.

The dressing rooms for the solo singers and the more prestigious the person, the more space between the doors and the fewer people had to share one room.

There were only four doors with only one name on them and one door was labeled "Yuri Plisetsky". That was probably the young one from before.

Didn't seem to friendly a fellow. That might not be good – life as a chorus singer or an understudy was hard enough without having any of the soloists hating you. Although in Milan it had rarely ever been the men who had started drama, that honour had usually belonged to the primadonna and the head ballerina. God help you if they for some reason both decided to hate you. Yuuri had watched a few young women leave the Scala because of that. But the leading ladies weren't the leading ladies for nothing, so the rest of the theater usually had suffered in silence and waited for the drama to blow over.

Yuuri could only pray that this boy wasn't interested in behaving like a primadonna, only because the actual one seemed a nice enough woman.

At least nice enough to consider him a landsman. Maybe it had been a while since she had had contact with an actual Italian and was now taking what she could get?

He listened to snippets of conversations floating around him, bits in German that he almost understood.

This language was confusing. Some words were actually familiar to his ears without him having to try too hard, but then they messed it up with too hard words, too many edges, too complicated verbs.

And still, Yuuri had managed to learn the language, at least well enough for everyday purposes. Celestino had insisted on him learning German years ago, considering how much German music and especially opera had grown in importance over the last few years.

Or maybe he had planned all along to send him away. It wasn't like Yuuri would be missed at the Scala. He couldn't even begrudge Celestino his decision to send Yuuri so far away. Quite a few of the German countries had a long and celebrated theater tradition and Dresden especially was proud to call itself a patron city of musical theater as well. Maybe Yuuri would find a spot for himself here. And in any case, he would not look more foreign here than he had in Milan.

He would feel glances and stares following him here as well and he would hear people whisper and laugh. Being a foreigner at least meant that there were things one would always and under any circumstances understand.

It had been quite too much very soon and thus he had quickly wandered to the inn in a rather cheap and maybe somewhat dirty district on the other side of the river Elbe. There he had paid his rent for the room he had slept in last night and grabbed his few belongings before leaving, hearing the landlord mutter something about his bad manners.

Head bowed down, almost tucked in between his shoulder blades, he had arrived back at the theatre and had slipped back in and wandered the maze, before returning to the curtains behind the main stage.

Rehearsals were still going on, but apparently, the parts for Tamino were through for today – on stage a bass singer as bass a singer could be and a soprano, probably in her thirties, went through the dialogue between Sarastro and Pamina.

They were good, Sarastro deep and filling and awe-inspiring – a wise and kind leader and protective father figure for the girl he had taken.

Pamina's sweet, flexible soprano wept her sorrow and her worries for her mother, occasionally broken by hopes for a better future with a lover she had yet to meet but was already enthralled with.

“Shit piece,” he heard someone mutter beside him and as he turned, saw the tenor. Yuri Plisetsky.

Yuuri flinched. “Oh... sorry... I didn't know you were here...”

“This opera is shit,” Yuri mumbled, as if he hadn't heard him.

Yuuri blinked at him. “It's a masterpiece.”

“Doesn't mean it's not full of shit.”

“You're singing the male lead.”

The boy shrugged. “We all need bread, right?” he slowly blinked at Yuuri, his bright eyes hard and cold with something almost like fury. “Don't look at me like that. You tell me you love singing so much or whatever?”

Taken aback, Yuuri stood in silence, while he listened as Sarastro and Pamina came to an end.

“Yeah, yeah, all right! Elise, you get the lyrics into that thick skull of yours by tomorrow! It's not even like Pamina has that much text to begin with!" Mr. Feltsman bellowed.

Maybe where he was concerned, that constituted as a praise. The soprano was positively glowing when she left the stage. She shot Yuuri a vaguely curious look, but then she very likely decided that a new face was beneath her attention and wandered off.

Yuuri found that he could live with that very well.

“Yuri! Your scene with Johannes! Then we're done for today!”

The boy sighed, "Ugh, finally!" and then left towards the stage.

Yuuri listened to the piano smattering the melody and then the bass started delivering what were the Priest's lines. “Wo willst du kühner Fremdling, hin? Was suchst du hier im Heiligthum?“

Maybe this production had merged Sarastro and this priest into one. Or maybe the singer for Sarastro played the priest's part for now.

This time, Yuri had no trouble delivering the expected feelings. Tamino's distrust against the supposed villain was palpable and he didn't shake it off after he supposedly had started to believe his word.

“Stop! Yuri! Tamino is _not_ sarcastic here!”

Yuri on the stage took an audible, deep breath.

Yuuri just waited for him to start screaming. If he had screamed he would not have been surprised at all.

However, the boy did not scream.

Yuuri heard him breathe out and then, with an utterly fake tone of resignation sigh: “Yeah, true, he believes every single word strangers he doesn't know tell him and is extremely easily swayed to their cause. He probably wouldn't know sarcasm if it stood in front of him yelling his face off as he deserves for his idiocy.”

From down below, a soft, long-suffering groan rose to them, then ended sharply and Mr. Feltsman said, “Again. From the top.”

They started again and this time, Yuri acted on the conversion of Tamino, portraying him with the wonder and elation of watching a sunrise after a night's vigil. His voice was already mostly formed but still had retained that glass clear, aerial quality Yuuri was used to hear from chorus boys before they grew up.

“All right, good! Who's on stage tonight? Both of you? Good, see you then.”

“See you!” the bass greeted before leaving for the curtain.

He took a quick glance at Yuuri. “New face?”

Yuuri quickly nodded. “Yes... uh... Georgi was supposed to show me the dorms.”

“Chorus then? Well, welcome to Dresden.”

“Thank you. … Yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki.”

The bass smiled through his thick, red beard and offered him a hand. "Johannes Erhard. And just in case you don't know yet – we're all stage folk here. We have each other's back no matter what. You got that?"

Yuuri didn't, but it was nice to hear it anyway. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Oi, Johannes, if you have time to be a papa to any new nose around here, you have time for your wife too!” Yuri hissed. “Get home!”

Johannes Erhard laughed. “If your wealth of experience and wisdom accumulated in your long, long life says so, my dear boy – I will! See you tonight!”

And he wandered off as well.

Yuri sighed. “He's no good on stage if he's not well-rested and he knows it.” He glanced to Yuuri again. “So. You know what's up after the “Magic Flute”?”

“Not yet.” Yuuri had the distinct feeling this might change in the next few moments.

“”Wildschütz”. Comedy. Light-hearted. Yakov mentioned it before. You should try out for it. Easy to sing, you might even get a small spot.”

“And what if not?”

“Then you're where you were before. Don't stare like that. Yakov likes the chorus stacked well enough that one or two singers absent won't be noticed. And in any case, no understudy ever suffered from a stint in the chorus."

Well, Mr. Feltsman surely had interesting ideas regarding how to manage his singers.

“And why would you want me to try out?” Yuuri asked. “There an understudy you wish a stint in the chorus upon?”

Yuri snorted. “The what? Does this look like Paris to you?”

“A few hours ago it most definitely didn't sound too French,” Yuuri admitted. “So, why then?”

“I like to see how far people can get.” His eyes were still sharp but the edge had come off a bit. “You gonna show me how far you can get, understood?”

This boy, Yuuri concluded, was a bit weird. But then again, he was singing lead tenor roles before he was even remotely in the area of turning twenty, so maybe being a bit weird was just another aspect of being gifted.

On the stage, the pianist, Georgi, was just closing the lid to the piano keys and stretching this back through, without doubt feeling rather sore after many hours of work.

He turned around and nodded to them. “Oh, you're here already? Great. See you tonight, Yuri!”

“Yeah, whatever,” Yuri mumbled and then wandered off.

Georgi huffed a laugh. “Oh, to be young and innocent again, eh?” He gave Yuuri a wink that was entirely obscure in its meaning to him.

“Ah well. Come along, will you!”

Yuuri did and was lead into the spring-warm midday sun and through streets and alleyways, filled with laughter and screaming and talking and the rumbling of horse pulled carts.

An ever-flowing stream of German surrounded them, and a weird one as that, the usually hard and sharp edges of the language blurred and slurred and everything spoken in a high-pitched, almost painful sing-song.

Yuuri prayed he'd get used to it and quickly. Preferably before his ears started to bleed.

“So”, Georgi turned to him, “don't mind me, but how did you get to Italy from Japan? Aren't they kind of closed-off?”

Thank goodness, he spoke Italian, although his accent was almost as thick as the porridge Yuuri had had for breakfast today.

“Si.” Yuuri nodded. “Maestro Cialdini picked me up in Singapore and brought me with him to Milano when I was small.”

“How old were you?”

“I don't know. Maybe three or four.”

Georgi's face twisted into something that seemed to be understanding and he nodded. "So, you remember anything from there?"

Yuuri shook his head. “No.”

Again, Georgi's face twisted, now into something like pity.

Yuuri looked ahead, just so he wouldn't have to look at it. “That's the Church of Our Lady over there?” he asked, nodding to one tall, time-darkened dome of sandstone.

“It is." Thankfully, Georgi picked up on the change of topic. "In case you ever loose your way in the city, head towards there and once you're on the Neumarkt, you should be able to find your way back to the theatre."

Another corner, they stopped to let some carriages and carts pass and then crossed the street.

The dormitory turned out to be a broad, five-story building with a bright blue facade and a thin, tired-looking widow for an owner who made a humble living out of renting out beds and offering food for theater folks from behind a small desk with a thick, large book on it that looked very well-thumbed.

She looked at Yuuri closely, going so far as drawing up her oil lamp close to his face, despite the fact that bright midday light shone through the window and lightened up the birch wood panels on the wall and the bright, yellow tiles on the floor. “Where do you work?”

Did he work there yet? He had just introduced himself, he had no fixed position yet, he...

“Mrs. Haubener,” Georgi sighed, “Really?”

“There's a way how things are done”, the woman snapped. “So, speak, lad.”

“Uh... Royal Court Theatre.”

“Orchestra? Chorus? Don't look like ballet, do you.”

“Chorus.”

“Good, they at least behave.” She nodded. “You pay your rent weekly. Breakfast is at six. Supper at 8. Your rent is 12 Groschen. This includes seven meals, your choice whether it's breakfast or supper. Let me know in advance. Everything else you book on top.”

Yuuri glanced to Georgi, but the man nodded and Yuuri decided to trust his judgement. “Good.”

“Good. You got money to pay for the week? If not, you can start paying next week, but put two Groschen on top of it for six weeks, then we're good.”

“I...” Yuuri's throat was tight. “I can pay.”

“Good.” She nodded, curtly, then held her hand out.

Yuuri quickly reached for his purse and counted up twelve Groschen into her palm.

“Good.” Mrs. Haubener smiled as she pocketed the money and opened a book. “Your name?”

“Katsuki, Yuuri.”

She raised an eyebrow and he spelled it out for her. “Sorry for that.”

“Funny name." She made a note behind the name and closed the book again. "Before Georgi shows you to your room – you can come and go at your own leisure, there's always someone opening up the doors. But you won't bring women to your room. You will not come towards the girls' rooms. If you have a female visitor, you can receive them in the mess hall. No smoking in the room. If you violate any of these rules or if I hear too many complaints from the other tenants or if you can't pay your rent, I will kick you out at once, understood?"

Yuuri hurried to nod, although his head was still picking apart the last sentence, just in case he had missed anything on first hearing.

“Good. Georgi, you know where there's a free bed, you take care of him.”

“Will do and thank you!”

“You up for dinner tonight?”

“Gladly. Sign him up for one too, my treat for the new guy.”

Mrs. Haubener raised an eyebrow. “Well, you didn't spend all your meals for the week, so, fine.” She looked at Yuuri. “You want breakfast tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” With a wave, they were dismissed and Georgi, grinning, headed for the stairway.

Yuuri followed him.

On each floor, there were two closed doors, left and right.

“Left are the women's rooms and Mrs. Haubener is serious, by the way, don't ever go there. I had a girl who lived there and we were planning to get married – I stayed here because it is cheaper than to rent a full apartment and we wanted to save for a house. We were only allowed to meet in the mess and only with a chaperone, so we usually went out or met at the theatre or in the city.”

“Oh.” That _were_ quite strict rules if even engaged couples had to obey them. "Uh... you were planning, you said?"

Georgi swallowed audibly. “She...” He looked at Yuuri, quite misty-eyed. “She changed her mind. In the end, she found it more lucrative to marry one of the sponsors of the lead ballerina.”

“Oh... well...” Yuuri tried very hard to find the right words, failed and thus, didn't say anything.

Georgi drew a deep breath. “Oh well. She will regret her decision in time, you will see. She will beg me to take her back. I am not entirely sure yet whether to forgive her then or spurn her.”

This left Yuuri speechless for entirely different reasons. While they went up another floor, he left Georgi to his ramblings until he finally opened the door to reveal a corridor with yet more doors, three on each side.

Georgi wandered down the corridor and opened the middle door on the left. “Ah, I was right – there's room here.” He waved Yuuri to come closer.

The room had six beds, one of them empty and obviously unoccupied. Next to each there was a small night stand, at the foot end of each bed a cask for clothes and other personal belongings.

The others were all showing various signs of general occupation.

“Three of them are in the orchestra – bit wild, those folks, take care when they offer you something – anything they call home made. The other two are singers, like you.” Georgi slapped his back. “I'm sure you'll get along.”

Yuuri nodded, slowly. “Yes... thank you.”

“Well, I'll leave you to it. I'm one floor up, middle room to the left.”

Again, Yuuri mumbled, "Thank you”, and then he was left alone to unpack what he had with him. Not that it was much, three pairs of trousers, two shirts, one good shirt, four sets of underwear. One well-thumbed edition of Boccaccio's “Decamerone”, which Yuuri carefully placed on his nightstand, running a finger over the back of the book. Celestino had used this very book to teach him reading, maybe a year or two after he had started giving Yuuri music lessons.

The memory brought a wave of homesickness that made Yuuri nauseous enough to sit down on the bed. Why had he ever thought this might actually be a good idea? It wasn't, it so definitely wasn't and he...

He took the book in his hands, feeling the familiar weight, the blue linen, once coarse, now softened by uncounted times of touching, the paper having lost the stiff freshness long ago, bending to his touch as he opened the book.

There was a sheet of paper inside.

Yuuri blinked, then picked it up and unfolded it.

Celestino's neat, flowing cursive stared at him in Italian and Yuuri smiled a bit. It _was_ like him to write him a note.

_My dear, little Yuuricino,_

_By now you have hopefully settled in in Dresden. Don't be too discouraged by Yakov Feltsman. He is gruff, but a good sort and he appreciates hard work. You are one of the hardest workers I have experienced in my life and you have more talent than you yourself believe. I do hope that Dresden will do you good and help you realize what you can do. With lots of love and all the best wishes,_

_Celestino Cialdini_

Yuuri dropped the note, taking in a deep breath.

Celestino had wanted him to go here and Yuuri had not protested. Celestino wanted him to be here. Now Yuuri was here. Celestino wanted him to succeed here.

Hopefully, he would.

 _With lots of love and all the best wishes_ , he had written.

That was some comfort at least. Celestino hadn't sent him away because he didn't care for him. Celestino wanted him to grow and change and succeed.

So, Yuuri would try his best.

So Yuuri would now consider Dresden the place to grow and change and succeed.

So Yuuri would now consider Dresden his home.

It would be all right.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this first chapter!
> 
> I blame Maiden_of_the_Moon for this. Seriously, it's all her fault.  
> Basically, this whole thing started as a simple PotO-AU for Yuri!!! On Ice, but well... I love the Semperoper in Dresden and I know a bit more about it than about the Opera Populaire in Paris, so... Dresden. I also love revolutions and I am a historian, so... 
> 
> The rest is the history we were born to make and I already look forward to the next few chapters. 
> 
> beta was done by thegrimshapeofyoursmile and thank goodness her Italian is better than mine.
> 
> So... thank you all again for reading this, I hope you enjoyed it and... dunno, leave a comment, chat me up on Tumblr ... let me know you exist. :D
> 
> Greetings, Sibi


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which attempts are made and fail. Some of them.

**Chapter 02**

 

It was anything but all right, no matter how hard Yuuri tried.

He had wandered Dresden a bit more, but it had been a short stint. Acutely aware that people stared at him, his features, his smaller stature and his distinctly not-Western complexion, he had managed only two or three streets before the stares had driven him back into the dormitory.

By the time of his return the place had started to crawl with people coming from their morning work or already heading out for the evening performances, the foyer was overrun with dancers and musicians and artists talking amiably or curtly to each other.

Nobody had paid Yuuri any attention, thank goodness.

He had met up with Georgi for supper, listening to him chattering on and on about which chorus boy had done this and that and which ballet girl he was intending to woo this year, so he could marry her, so his former betrothed would see how well he'd be doing without her and then she'd regret everything and try to reconcile with him.

He didn't say much, partly because Georgi certainly revelled in having someone who listened to his ramblings.

Partly it was because Georgi was talking fast and with that thick accent of his, so Yuuri had to focus all his attention on understanding what he was saying.

Probably the biggest reason was that Georgi was, in fact, a little bit scary with the way he talked and Yuuri most certainly did not want to encourage him.

It was bedtime for him soon after – Mrs. Haubener handed him a blanket, sheets and a pillow, all clean and smelling faintly of lavender and all smooth and tinted the softest shade of yellow with long years of use.

So, in the empty room, he made his bed and laid down, closing his eyes, trying to catch some sleep.

It proved to be a tough exercise.

Dresden was a loud city night and day, full of the rumble of the carts, the clopping of hooves, the chatter and laughter of people and the shatter of glass.

Even after pressing the pillow over his ears, the sounds still intruded on him and followed him into his dreams.

 

Morning came too early and as he rose, he saw five other tousled heads rising, blinking, looking around and then stumbling out of their beds to get dressed.

The other men blinked at him. “New face, eh?” one commented. “Where you work?”

“Chorus,” Yuuri mumbled and then hurried down, before they could stare at him any more or ask questions or generally try to talk to him.

Downstairs a maid servant handed out trays with bread and butter and cheese and porridge and strong, black tea and made a mark behind his name on a list.

He ate in silence, taking notice of the fact that Georgi wasn't coming down and scanning the many, square tables of the room that was serving as mess hall. Everyone down here looked just as tired as Yuuri felt and the tea did only so much to alleviate his troubles. Also, down here in the mess hall with them all groggy from what likely had been far too short a night, the gender segregation was almost nonexistent, men and women eating in peace at the same table, sometimes in bleary silence, sometimes with a side of friendly banter or bickering, before they got up, carried their dishes back and then left, possibly for whatever line of work they were keeping themselves fed and housed with.

Yuuri cleared his plate in silence before doing the same.

The theatre was waiting.

Life was waiting.

Work, however, wasn't waiting, so he better hurry, because really, there were a lot of things he would rather face than an angry Yakov Feltsman right at his first day there. Being thrown off a cliff most definitely or being run over by a horse cart most definitely would have been a far more delightful prospect.

With his life being the way it was, it was likely he would be very late nonetheless, due to some circumstances he could not foresee, or he would be laughably early, waiting in the corridors - or worse, in front of the building - because nobody would let him in just yet.

Well, being too early was better anyways. He could spend the time bracing himself for the day to come, for strange new faces, for questions, for unknown material, for finding himself a position in the chorus, for Mr. Feltsman.

Miraculously, the door was already open and he could go inside to follow long, yellow-dark corridors towards the stage.

Each step took him closer and he still didn't feel too ready to face what lay ahead and...

But there it was, the stage, the auditorium, and there was Mr. Feltsman, already sitting in one of the chairs close to the orchestra pit.

Of course. Of course the one case Yuuri would have considered the worst – directly after being late – had to happen. Being the first to arrive was almost as bad as being dead last and only because being the last meant more eyes to stare at him.

He took a deep breath and came out into sight. “Good morning.”

Mr. Feltsman looked up. “Ah. You here. Good. Warm up.” He waved and then turned back to the newspaper he was reading.

Yuuri started with some breathing exercises, widening his lungs, then loosened his lips and tongue by making hissing, chortling sounds and blowing raspberries before finally getting to his vocal cords, moving his voice up and down in even, uninterrupted glides, before singing scores and then slowly moving on to simply three-tone melodies.

When he was done, Mr. Feltsman had put his newspaper aside and was watching him intently.

Yuuri tried his hardest to hold his gaze, but at the end he had to avert his eyes.

“Tenor, right?”

“Uh, yes. Last time I checked... just now...”

Mr. Feltsman raised an eyebrow and it occurred to Yuuri too late that he might not appreciate cheek. Well. Too late. But maybe it wasn't too late to slink away to a corner and die, in a potentially less painful way than what Mr. Feltsman might do to him.

But Mr. Feltsman did nothing that might have pointed towards the impending, painful termination of Yuuri’s life.

Instead, he reached to the seat next to himself and grabbed a small folio. “There!” He lifted his arm and threw the thing for Yuuri to run after and catch it.

When he opened it, he found sheets of music.

“You got around fifteen minutes before most of the others arrive. Go through it and see what you already know. Practise the rest with me afterwards.”

Yuuri leafed through the songs. “I... I think I'm good...” he admitted. “I mean, I know them from Maestro Caldini...”

“You sing any of them on stage?” Mr. Feltsman asked. Then he corrected himself: “Sang.”

“Some of them,” Yuuri admitted. “ _Nabucco_ I never performed because I was considered too young, but I practised and studied it.”

“With whom?”

With Celestino, Yuuri wanted to say, but that would have meant Mr. Feltsman thought of him as some sort of genius, deserving of such intense tutelage. Which he was not. He wasn't bad per se or he would not even sing in chorus or even a small solo role. But he most definitely wasn't what Mr. Feltsman would expect. And Celestino had practised these songs with him in private, for their own mutual amusement, so he had been lenient with him and...

“Nobody. Alone.”

“Ah.” Mr. Feltsman crossed his arms. “So, _Va, pensiero_ too?”

Yuuri nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.” He leaned back in his chair, looking up to Yuuri expectantly. “Well. Let's hear.”

“What... no...”

Mr. Feltsman let out something like a growl. “You say no to me?” he asked, face twisting up. “You say no to me?! To me? You?!” He had risen from his chair, staring at him.

Yuuri’s stomach churned.

“So! You sing now or not?!”

The nausea was getting worse by the second and still, Mr. Feltsman was staring at him.

So, finally, he nodded.

“Ah, fine. You need piano?”

Yuuri shook his head. “I... I gonna do myself.” Why was his German leaving him, right now when it would have been really important to appear at least somewhat confident.

“As you will, but hurry up.”

He stepped closer to the piano that was half-hidden behind the curtain, sheets of music in hand, and then he was out of Mr. Feltsman’s line of sight.

This was good.

Yuuri actually managed to calm down his breathing, deepen the draws of air he took and settle his nerves, just a little bit.

It was enough so his fingers didn't tremble when they touched the piano keys, playing the first few beats that lead into the song, before his voice set in. “Va, pensiero, sull’ali dorate; va, ti posa sui clivi, sui colli, ove olezzano tepide e molli l’aure dolci del suolo natal!“

Somewhere along the singing he dared to come back out on stage, doing his best not to think about Mr. Feltsman sitting down there in his chair, looking at him with was most definitely was utter disapproval.

Instead, he focused on the song. “O mia patria sì bella e perduta! O membranza sì cara e fatal!“ He would not allow himself to think too much about Milan anymore. He was here now. He was here.

It ended with “che ne infonda al patire virtù.“ and Yuuri let out a deep breath of relief after a second.

“Good.” Mr. Feltsman nodded. “The rest of the songs in the repertoire? You know these too?”

“Uh, yes.” Should he sing these too? Knowing would have been nice.

“Good.”

There was not much more time. Yuuri already heard footsteps, many, many of them, and they all were light. Chorus singers were young, most of the time, hoping to rise through the ranks in time, becoming someone's understudy and maybe even lead singer themselves at some point. Those who didn't flourish when they grew older could either stay or try and find some other employment, maybe as a private music teacher or as a performer in a smaller theatre. Most stayed small, with small names, small incomes, small lives.

Yuuri had never dared to dream of anything big.

But here they were, the other singers, looking at him, some smiling, some gaping, all as if the Prima Donna herself had declared it proper and reasonable to practise with them.

“Oh. Morning,” he mumbled, trying to smile at them.

They smiled.

“That sounded great!”, some of them commented, “From what I've heard!”, before theytook their designated places.

Yuuri relied on Mr. Feltsman's cues to join the tenor singers.

They positioned themselves, the other tenor singers happily taking Yuuri in their middle, because “it makes you flub less as a new starter”, as one boy cheerfully explained.

Practise went on and it was... it was all right.

Yuuri found he liked the voices surrounded him and that he could sing along quite nicely with them.

Practise went along quite nicely, in fact, after they had warmed up and Yuuri actually found himself having fun singing with others, hearing their voices, singing with them, melting with them into the same song, following Mr. Feltsman’s instructions and corrections after each piece.

It wasn't until eight o’clock that any of them heard another set of steps and then an annoyed, “Oi, Yakov, you wanna keep them for the whole day?!” from a young tenor voice that, in Yuuri's that Yuuri would always be entwined with flaxen hair and eyes too sharp, too smart and entirely too brash for their age.

Only then the spell was broken. Only then Yuuri woke up again, realizing that he was on stage, surrounded by dozens and dozens of people.

He looked around. Next to the curtain Yuri Plisetsky leaned against a beam, arms folded across his chest, a dour look on his face. “We wanna start, y'know?”

“Yeah, yeah. Good! Chorus, dismissed! The schedules for next week’s evening performances hang on the board, check them up!” Mr. Feltsman waved at them and they broke formation.

“You sing really well,” a young man said, next to him, smiling.

“Uh. Thanks.” Yuuri managed to pull up the corners of his mouth. “Mr. Feltsman is pretty demanding, right?”

“Yes, but that's what makes us good.” The man grinned. “I am Johannes.”

“Yuuri.” They shook hands while heading off the stage.

“Katsuki!”

Yuuri flinched and turned around. “Yes?!”

“One of the tenors has called in sick, so you're filling in for him tomorrow in the chorus. For the rest you'll check the board.”

Yuuri's stomach once again dropped. That was... unexpected. He nodded, slowly, before following the others off the stage, along the corridors to the group changing room. They didn't have to change today, but Yuuri had already seen yesterday that the board with the schedules and announcements was next to the door of the changing room.

His name was somewhere in the middle of the tenor part of the list. Behind it were dates and the names of operas or singspiele.

Yuuri was scheduled for five evenings. That meant three different performances.

“As I said,” Johannes grinned, “demanding job here, but that's what makes you good.”

Yuuri nodded. “It's not worse than the Scala.”

“Oh right, you're from Milan.” Johannes looked him up and down. “You don't look Italian, mind you.”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow.

“I guess you hear that a lot?”

“And I am familiar with the concept of looking glasses and able to apply this knowledge in my everyday life, yes.” But still, Yuuri found himself smiling as he said this.

Johannes grinned. “Yeah, okay, admittedly, the only person in this whole theatre who looks Italian is La Crispino, so, I guess we're in the same boat here.”

Yuuri laughed. “Yes, seems like it.”

They moved aside so the others could have a glance on the board as well.

“So, you've got time today, what you gonna do?” Johannes asked.

“Don't know. Maybe I'll take another look at the town, yesterday I didn't see so much. And practising. You?”

“I am on stage tonight, so I guess I'll rest at home. My sister always complains I'm too exhausted.”

Yuuri nodded and smiled. “Good, then.”

“See you tomorrow.” Johannes turned, waving, and then he wandered off.

Yuuri looked after him for a bit before turning his attention back to the board.

For a few more moments he studied it and then turned away, making a mental note to bring a pen and paper with him tomorrow, so he could write it down properly.

It was still so early in the day. Performances did not start until five or six and would go on until as late as 11. Thankfully, chorus singers were generally not required to partake in any social after-functions, so Yuuri would hopefully not have to worry about lacking sleep.

“So?”

He turned around to find Yuri Plisetsky standing behind him, staring.

“Uh. Hello. Again,” Yuuri mumbled, trying not to sound too disturbed about the fact that the boy was here, in front of the changing room, instead of the stage where he was supposed to be practising.

“Yakov's busy with Sara and Mila,” Yuri mumbled. “Sara’s understudy.”

Yuuri nodded.

“So.” The boy folded his arms in front of his chest. “You gonna try out for the _Wildschütz_?”

“I don't know yet,” Yuuri admitted. “This _is_ my first day here and it seems this place already has its pick on solo singers, so...”

“So, you're afraid?” Yuri’s eyes darted up and down on him.

“What?” Yuuri blinked.

Now his eyes narrowed. “You afraid you gonna suck?”

“No, not... not really, I...” Yuuri found himself looking for words. “I mean, I simply don't think I’m gonna do too well, so, maybe I should focus on improving in general... I could do better next time?”

“Ah.” Yuri took a deep breath. “So you don't wanna suck, so you don't try at all? Okay, we can shorten this period of anxiety.” He took a step closer to Yuuri and Yuuri found himself walking backwards. He hit the wall. “If you think so, you suck, end of story. We don't need suckers here, we need folks who are good and who can sing.”

The boy stood now directly in front of him, staring him in the eye. Yuuri wasn't sure whether he had ever seen so much disgust directed at him.

“Get out then, we don't need you!” And with that, he turned around and stomped off.

Yuuri stood and stared after him.

What the hell had that been about?

What...

He stood there and then he realized he was shaking his head. That was really weird.

He didn't know Yuri and the boy didn't seem like having taken a liking to him. Pretty much the opposite, at least compared to the other people Yuuri had at least attempted to engage so far.

Maybe it was his youth.

Or maybe he was simply a brat (which, admittedly, was a side effect of him still being so young. It would get lesser with age then. At least, Yuuri hoped so).

But still.

He found it strangely hard to turn around and go down the corridor to the door. His feet were heavy, slowed down.

He paused, close to the door.

So, basically, this child called him a coward because he was hesitant about a tryout.

Yuuri shook his head. Well, if that was a reason to call him a coward, then fine, really, that was fine.

But still. The boy had declared him unfit to sing because of this. And maybe that was the case to some degree. Someone too afraid for a tryout was certainly not fit for a solo spot at the center stage.

But this little brat apparently thought he could chase him out of the chorus. Before Yuuri had even made a place for himself here. The very idea left a sour taste in his mouth.

Again, he shook his head while his feet started walking again, turning, going back, to the stage.

Yuri Plisetsky was still standing there, behind the curtain, looking out on the stage.

“So,” Yuuri sighed in something that probably was defeat, but for some reason did come out quite un-defeated, “You got the scores and a libretto for the _Wildschütz_ or what?!”

 

Considering small parts rarely ever had any solo numbers of a length to speak of, practising the big and important roles was inevitable when preparing for a try-out. The “Wildschütz” had only one big tenor part and that one had quite a few solo verses, so, more than enough material to take his pick from. The thing itself was a light-hearted opera buffa, so at least nobody would expect any gravitas in his presence. Gravitas very likely would have killed that sort of performance anyways.

In that way, Yuri Plisetsky was right. Yuuri would have no trouble with a role like the Baron Kronental.

Leafing through the libretto for a suitable piece to sing, he had had chuckled quite a few times; light-hearted as it was, the humor was just outright _vicious_ at times, with one young bride happily poking fun at the age of her middle-aged groom right in the beginning.

The story continued with circumstances threatening the wedding, dressup, crossdressing, going into hiding, mistaken identities, and utterly strange love situations.

And Yuuri had thought Italian opera could go over the top. Leave it to the Germans to blow it up even more. Also, leave it to the Germans to attempt and make allusions of incestuous adultery funny.

It resolved in some happily married love matches in the end; none of them incestuous or adulterous, so far.

There were smaller practise rooms in the back of the building and Yuuri made it his habit to go and find himself a free one after morning rehearsal and practise there for two hours or so.

The music was fun and energetic and easy enough to play if the lead melody was all one was trying for anyways.

Singing was a bit more tricky with these energetic, fun things that sounded so nice and easy, but were anything but.

Yuuri got into the routine of starting with a scene between the Baron and his brother-in-law, the Count of Eberbach, discussing how the unmarried Baron had snuck in under the disguise of a stable boy and had already started flirting with the Counts wife – who was also his sister. He sang the Baron's parts, only humming along whenever the Count had a line.

Once this was finished, he moved on to one of the first longer verses of the Baron in which he declared himself smitten with a supposedly poor young woman. “Ja, ich muss die Holde sehen, Und sie sprechen ganz allein; Weiss nicht, wie mir ist geschehen, Wunderbar nimmt sie mich ein. Möglich, dass dies Mädchen eben Krönet meiner Wünsche Streben Und mir dann versüsst des herben Lebens Pein!”

Yuuri almost pitied the poor fellow for this, but it was just too much fun to sing, his voice rising and falling along the lines. At this point, he always heard himself how the passion of an instant infatuation replaced the light, flighty way he had performed until then.

When one day he had finished his warm-up and straight up went to these verses of infatuation, the passion was already there.

That was good. He could recall emotion when needed. This was very, very, very good.

He then would move on to the second longer verse the Baron had, one he sang together with the Count, expressing their shared disbelief that their equally shared, poor, low-born sweetheart was engaged to a middle aged, homely school teacher. “Nein, es ist kaum zu glauben, Dass dieses Monstrum hier Imstande wär', zu rauben Der Mädchen schönste Zier! Und diese Rosenwangen, Sie sollten vor Verlangen Für diesen Alten glühn? Erdrosseln möcht' ich ihn!“

The disbelief and anger were no problem either. Good. Yes, that _was_ really fun to sing and Yuuri found himself looking forward to these few hours every day, in the morning, during rehearsal and when performing.

Occasionally, when he was almost done with singing through the baron's parts and his voice was warm and flexible and easy, the notes coursing through him and leaving him in a sweet flow.

His days slipped into an easy, familiar routine of rehearsal, practise and on most evenings, performances, during which he wrote a short letter, informing Celestino Cialdini of his safe arrival in Dresden and at the Opera, his good health and, after a moment of hesitation, the upcoming tryouts. These sort of things were what Celestino loved to hear, so Yuuri gladly provided.

He would usually chat with Georgi (at least on days the man wasn't obsessing over his former fiancée) as well as with Johannes and some other men from the chorus, sometimes after performances they would try and find some place for dinner in a group.

It most definitely helped Yuuri improve his grasp on German, to sit and listen to them exchanging stories and throwing good natured jabs at each other, even though he would never make sense of this mash up of accents they featured.

“Yuuri, you know any fun stories from the Scala?” Johannes one day asked, cheerfully chewing on a bit of potato dipped in curd. Their favourite dinner at the inn Seidelhof was wonderfully cheap and filling – hence its status.

The atmosphere was good – the performance of “Faust” tonight had gone off without a hitch. The solo singers had performed flawlessly, nobody in the ballet had had even the slightest misstep, everyone in the chorus had been on note. Which was how things should be, but rarely ever were. It was opera, there was always something happening causing minor drama and they had to work around it.

Which made for good stories they liked to share and pass around in a good mood.

And the mood was good. Mr. Feltsman had praised them. At least Yuuri had the feeling that his “like that tomorrow, folks” was a praise, considering the reactions of the other singers.

“Uh...” Yuuri quickly stuffed a piece of potato into his mouth to chew on and regretted it immediately since steamed potatoes had a tendency to be hot when coming fresh from the kitchen.

He desperately tried to roll the bite in his mouth without actually touching it with his tongue, grabbing for his beer to ease the pain a bit.

The hurt and the subsequent cooling made the beer actually almost drinkable.

“Urgh.” Yuuri swallowed. “Now that's a story, a singer who dies of a hot potato and awful alcohol.”

Johannes laughed. “I tell you, you will get used to beer.”

“I do hope not before I can afford proper wine again.” Still, the beer was cold and his mouth was still hurting a bit, so Yuuri took another sip. “Anyway, it's funnier when it happens to the musical director of the opera house and involves some meatballs, spitting and the primadonna in her brand new, yellow dress. For a moment I thought she’d join the ranks of the ghosts haunting the Ducale.”

There was a round of laughter and finally someone said: “You got many of them there?”

“Ghosts?” Yuuri rolled his eyes. “Every department has their own stories. Sometimes up to ten or so. It’s become a competition of sort, whether ballet or singers or stagehands are better at creeping each other out.”

“You got so many ghosts, send them over here!” A boy, Thomas laughed. “We got only one and he’s been here for only a few years!”

Considering all the technology a stage demanded, the endless corridors, the ever present bustle of people, it wasn’t hard to mistake a gust of wind for a moan or the creaking of floorboards for steps. And of course, when people left out sweetmeats to appease a ghost or two they would disappear.

Celestino had always made a show of laughing at these superstitions and secretly sprayed Holy Water on corridors and in rooms that were considered particularly haunted.

“One ghost? In how many years?” Yuuri inquired.

“Yes and a quiet one at that,” Johannes grumbled. “Worst we’ve noticed was some rustling of curtains during a dress rehearsal. Send some of yours over, Yuuri, it would liven things up a bit.”

Yuuri chuckled. “Maybe I can write Celestino to repeat the meatball incident, then we’d have one fresh and full of energy.”

One of the other men snorted. “I would love to bear witness!”

“Yeah, with La Crispino it's kinda hard to do,” Johannes sighed. “She always wears so dark colours.”

“Let's face it, she would laugh at it and spit something on your shirt in revenge.”

“So she's always so nice?” Yuuri asked.

“Yep.” Johannes shrugged. “Dunno how she got to her position with being so nice and all, but I'm certainly not complaining. What was the yellow dress primadonna like?”

Yuuri spiked another piece of potato on his fork. “Her name is Angelique Farbenieu.”

“Oh shit.”

“Yes. She was at the Ducale when I was ten or so and she always complained about me being there.” Yuuri puffed out his chest, throwing his head back. “Stage is not a place for children!” he then called in a thick. false french accent.

Around the table there was a round of eyeroll and occasional laughter.

Yuuri shrugged and then made an effort to speak casually, which was quite a feat considering the stilted nature of German. “She was less mean to me when I offered to walk her poodle for her. Even paid me, quite well too. And the dog was good. But to the rest of the folks, no. She was not nice. “

“Rarely a primadonna is,” one man commented, “And La Crispino... I wouldn't be surprised if she decided to have seen enough of this world and return to heaven.”

“Or Verona,” Yuuri countered. “Which is close enough.”

There was some laughter at the table and Johannes asked “Aw, why, you already miss the Italian beauties?”

Yuuri smiled at the jab. “More like the wine. And the absence of this awful beer.”

 

His singing was secure these days, he could rely on his voice and he wasn't alone here. Two weeks passed and then the third, and Yuuri had to admit that it was far less horrible than he had at first feared. The Crispino was as kind and sweet to him as to anyone else, Yuuri made an effort to not cause trouble for any other singer and Yuri Plisetsky very pointedly did not even look in his direction, which Yuuri wasn't too sad about.

So when Mr. Feltsman ended their practise for the day with “Good then – those who want to try out for the “Wildschütz” stay!” Yuuri didn't at first realize what this meant.

He stayed, after all he wanted to try out and Georgi behind his piano looked pretty cheerful about that, packing away one stack of sheet music to replace it with another.

It sank in only after a moment, when some of the solo singers strolled in and sat down in the red cushioned chairs.

One of them was Yuri Plisetsky and in stark contrast to the days before his eyes now followed every step Yuuri took.

It was more than slightly unnerving.

Mr. Feltsman greeted them with a curt nod before sitting down himself. “Good, welcome to the tryout for the male roles for Lortzing's _Wildschütz_ , yaddayadda, you all are warmed up, so we can start with the bass. Anyone trying out for Baculus?”

No reaction whatsoever.

Yuuri glanced around, but none of the faces around him he could associate with the admittedly quite small bass section of the chorus.

“Nobody, eh? So, Pancratius neither?” Mr. Feltsman sighed. “Katsuki, you said you were trained to sing baritone?”

Yuuri flinched. “Yes...”

“Bass?”

Yuuri almost didn't dare to shake his head as he was stared down not only by Mr. Feltsman but by the other chorus members and by the solo singers down in their chairs as well.

He swallowed and then mumbled: “No. Baritone yes, but most definitely not bass.”

Mr. Feltsman sighed. “Fine then. Johannes!”

Mr. Erhard, one of the bass singers here and the Sarastro in the current staging of the “Magic Flute” if Yuuri remembered correctly, sighed deeply. “Fine, Yakov, but you explain this to my wife. Or better, Yuri does.”

“What?!” Yuri Plisetsky turned his head around, eyebrows raised until they almost disappeared under the strands that were insistently falling over his brows. “Why would I do that?!”

Mr. Erhard shrugged. “She adores you. You have the highest chance of not getting dismembered with a frying pan and a scrubbing board.”

Mr. Feltsman sighed and The Crispino laughed. “I'll bring some wine to calm her nerves, Yakov and Johannes hold her down and me, Elise and Yuri deliver the news?”

Mr. Erhard sighed. “That might actually work. Thank you.”

“We have a tryout here. Plan your tea parties some other time,” Mr. Feltsman rumbled, before adding, “But count me in.” He looked back onto the stage. “Good, no bass, what a great start, next time we have vacant spots in the chorus, remind me to hire more bass singers! Next role. Baritone. Count Eberbach! Baritone!”

Yuuri tried to slink away.

“Katsuki, I said Baritone, are you capable of singing Baritone or not?!”

Yuuri flinched, once again. He was, he was very much capable of singing baritone; Celestino had been immensely proud when he had realized how versatile his protégé's voice was and had put great effort into training him to utilize it to its full effect.

“If... from the first act, the thirteenth scene,” he mumbled. “But I haven't prepared anything, I mean...”

“Either you prepared something you can sing,” Mr. Feltsman snapped, “or not. Decide now. Sing or shut up.”

Yuuri swallowed. “The _Diese Holde_ verse,”, he finally said. The verse the count sang expressing his desire for a supposedly common girl, just before the baron voiced a similar desire.

Mr. Feltsman made a short gesture and Georgi started playing and –

It was so far. The emptiness was filling Yuuris ears, blocking everything, numbing the piano, numbing the mumbling that was arising around him.

His whole body had went cold.

He could not even open his mouth, he knew the words, he knew he had to set in, now Georgi was already on the second line, he...

Yakov sighed. “Stop. Next.”

The world around Yuuri shifted, the auditorium angled and he saw the stage curtain moving to him.

Boxes and beams and levers and his line of view lowered and Johannes looked at him.

His mouth moved, but it took Yuuri a while until he could make out the words.

“You don't look too good – are you ok?”

“I...” Why was his voice so hoarse? He hadn't even sung...

He hadn't even sung.

Yuuri heard voices from the stage. Talking. Mr. Feltsman gave critique pointers. Someone else started singing.

“You should have insisted on not singing Baritone, if you weren't prepared for that,” Johannes said.

Yes, he should have, he should have, he should have, he should have - and he hadn't.

“It wasn't right of him to ask you to sing a baritone part,” Johannes continued.

But Yuuri had agreed and had given a music direction to Georgi, so...

“I'm sorry...”

“No, don't apologize...” Johannes sighed. “It's... maybe you can sing again when you're calmer?”

They both knew that this was not going to happen. Yakov Feltsman made no exceptions.

He glanced to the stage. “I am up now. You stay here, yes?”

Yuuri nodded.

More singing, more and more and always the same few pieces, solo verses and arias of the baron, music he had studied and worked on and prepared himself for.

What was he even doing here? Why had he thought that he could do this?! This wasn't even the first time, he couldn't even claim that this had never happened before, because oh, it had, it had happened, way too often, and Yuuri knew, and still he had tried.

Just... why?

He heard steps coming closer, very light, carefully set and measured.

“Well,” Yuri Plisetsky said, “at least we have yet to explore all the ways you can suck. Can't say much about that if you don't even sing.”

Yuuri didn't look up.

“What the hell was that about?!”

He flinched and a small, distant corner of his mind noted that this was in fact the first time that Yuri Plisetsky had indeed yelled at him. Or that he had heard the boy yell at all. Quite some self-control, considering the ever-simmering anger that lingered in every move of his, in every glance he cast around, in every slight tilt of his head.

He had definitely better self control than Yuuri.

His eyes were burning, his cheeks hot and then he heard Yuri Plisetsky yelling again.

“What the hell, are you crying now?! What?”

And he wanted to stop, he really, he didn't want to cry at all, but it wouldn't stop, the tears would not stop and...

“What the hell are you even doing here?! What was that, I have heard you practising that shit, you should have been fine one way or another, why did you...”

“Yuri.”

Oh. Mr. Feltsman. Great someone else to yell at him. Yuuri's hands started to move again, digging for a handkerchief, keeping his head down.

“Elise is here, you four can get started now, go through your parts. If Claus, Thomas and Maria are early, you can practise the dialogue between Papageno and Tamino.”

The boy huffed, but Yuuri heard him walking away in carefully measured, light steps.

Which wasn't much of a relief, considering how Mr. Feltsman was staring down on him now.

“You come into my office with me.”

Oh, that was it, he would be now officially told to please leave and find another employment. Maybe another line of work entirely. Probably in less polite terms, this was Yakov Feltsman he was talking about.

The man led him through the maze of the backstage to the more organized hallways in the back of the building.

His office door was small and unassuming and only a small nameplate denoted its occupant and his relative importance to the house. “Director for musical performance affairs” did sound grave indeed.

The interior, in contrast, was spartan and lived-through, the desk big and stable, but without ornament and white paint slowly chipping off of it. Same went for the cushionless chairs and the shelves containing thick ledgers and books.

He let Yuuri in. “Take a seat.”

Yuuri did so.

Mr. Feltsman went around the desk and sat down, folding his hands on the desk. “Johannes made sure the other chorus singers took the exit on the other side from the stage. Remember to thank him for that.”

Yuuri nodded.

“That happened before?”

“Y...” Damnit. “Yes.” He finally managed to look up. “I'm sorry...”

To his surprise, Mr. Feltsman didn't look angry or even disgusted. His face, in fact, was about as kind and gentle as it could get, stern as it was. “I see. What did Cialdini say about it?”

“That I had no reason for this, that I just needed more confidence, but...” Yuuri shrugged, there was nothing to add, but he wanted to, at least for himself.

Mr. Feltsman nodded. “Speak of the devil, you've got mail.” He reached into one of his drawer and pulled out an envelope, handing it to Yuuri.

The handwriting that said “To Yuuri Katsuki, at the Royal Court Theater in Dresden” was unmistakably Celestino's.

Something in Yuuri's stomach lurched, far more than it should have at a letter from his guardian.

“He sent it here since he couldn't figure your address. You should write it to him, can't take your letters forever, I'm not a mail man.”

Yuuri swallowed.

“Take today and tomorrow off. I'll have someone fill in for you tonight.”

“What...”

“You're a mess,” Mr. Feltsman stated. “And I doubt you'll be fine by tonight. And while the chorus tonight is big enough for one missing voice to not be noticed, one singer freezing up on stage is not so easy to hide. Or crying. Don' get me started on the crying. Could go on for days. Also, it makes the other singers nervous. Do yourself the favour. Get some sleep. Come back the day after tomorrow. There'll be other auditions this year.”

So he was not being fired.

Yuuri sat very still, while his brain was racking over this new bit of information. He was not being fired. He was, in fact treated with an almost worrying amount of kindness.

“I am really sorry for the inconvenience,” he mumbled.

Mr. Feltsman waved. “Just go and get some rest.”

Yuuri swallowed hard and then got up. “Thank you. And... and I am sorry.”

“I know.” Mr. Feltsman nodded. “We'll see how to work on this. See you.”

This was a dismissal and Yuuri thought it might be better if he did as he was told now.

With soft steps he left the office and closed the door behind him.

With soft steps he wandered the hallways.

With soft steps he found himself backstage, listening to the soloists going through their parts before leaving again, looking for one of the empty rooms.

Mr. Feltsman had told him to go and sleep and get some rest, but going back to Mrs. Haubener’s house would mean that he'd inevitably run into one of the other singers. Yuuri wasn't so sure he could stand this right now, not now, not like this.

So there he waited.

For a while he sat there, on the floor, next to the piano, holding Celestino’s letter in his hands.

He didn't really want to read it. He already could tell what it said, but as long as he didn't read it, he didn't have to face it.

There he sat, staring at the wall or at the ceiling. Or the piano, listening to the bustle outside that went on and on for some time.

The piano was warm in his back, a strong, firm support to lean against, to wait and sit and wait and hold the envelope.

It went quiet at some point, both outside the room and inside Yuuri's chest.

They would start preparing the stage for this evening's performance.

In an hour or so, he assumed by looking out of the window, the soloists would come and get dressed into their costumes. In another hour the chorus singers would arrive and do the same. At the same time, the ballet dancers would arrive. They would all get ready, warm up and go over some key lines a last time.

And then the audience would be let in, first those on the cheap front seats, dressed in their best for a nice evening out. Not at all fine clothes, but respectable, dark linen dresses with high necklines and a hint of lace here or there. Clothes very similar, but the fabric just a little more expensive than what a respectable woman of the upper middle class would wear during the day.

Of course, a woman wearing a dark, modest dress as her best was most definitely not upper middle class. Just as the men wearing what for others was a daytime suit for a theatre or opera or date were at best low-tier clerks and more likely lowish-tier craftsmen or maybe factory workers.

They sat just in front of the stage, with a poor view on what was happening above their heads, cheapest seats for the largest, but poorest component of their audience.

Behind them, with a gap separating the seating group, was the smaller, fortunate group of well-to-do shop owners, traders, the occasional teacher, maybe even the odd knight and count.

At last only the highest-paying patrons of the Royal Court Theatre would take seat, the richest bourgeois of Dresden, some courtiers and their ladies from the royal court, on very special occasions the king and his immediate family, although Yuuri had heard that this last prominent audience member would only appear on opening nights for a new staging and only for a few select favourite pieces at that.

Yuuri had never seen the curtains to the royal box drawn back.

He would not see it today either, considering how Mr. Feltsman had insisted on not seeing him here for the next few days.

Here, there would be silence, only utter silence.

So, maybe now it was safe to open the letter now, now nobody would hear him, just in case he would cry or make another too-loud noise he didn't want anyone to hear.

He stared at the envelope.

Celestino's handwriting greeted him, smiling almost, and it made his stomach churn.

Slowly, he tore open the envelope at the side and reached in.

It was only a short note, thank goodness. What it was, was enough to clench up his throat.

_Yuuriccino,_

_I am glad to hear you are well and that you are trying out. This alone makes me proud._

_With love,_

_Celestino Cialdini_

Maybe Celestino hadn't expected him to succeed, but was simply giving him praise for effort. He would not be disappointed by his failure. He was expecting it to happen, plain and simple.

Or maybe he had been hoping for Yuuri to get a part. Maybe he was looking forward to finally say, “See, I knew you could be something if you just stopped being scared all the time”, and now he would not get to say these words and be annoyed by it.

He had meant well with his note. Yuuri knew that. He could see it in the swing of his writing, a little loopy like the smile he had on his face when Yuuri had managed to do something right for a change.

He had meant to encourage him or let him know that it was alright if he didn't get a solo part but that didn't change the fact that right now, Yuuri was desperately fighting to draw breath again.

Just why? Why was he like this? Why couldn't he be different, why, why, why...

A strangled, choked-up noise filled the room and it took Yuuri a moment to realize that it was his own voice, coming out in a low whimper, that soon turned into a series of hard, wrecked sobs.

At least he could keep it low. At least, after some time, he stopped, breath harsh and lungs burning.

It would be best to wait until the performance had ended and the performers had left the building. Then, when only the stagehands were left, he could slip out and go back home, get to bed, get some sleep.

He already knew he'd feel like starving the next day – he had had breakfast today, but that was about it. But right now, he was too empty to feel hungry, even though his stomach was painfully cramping. Crying tended to take it out of him, especially when it went without tears.

He had messed up. He had messed up big time and anyone else but Mr. Feltsman would have very likely fired him. Hell, he had thought Mr. Feltsman would fire him.

Still, here he was.

Yuuri took a deep breath. There would be other auditions. He would mess them up as well, very likely, but there would be other auditions.

For now it was over.

He ran a hand over the claviature before pressing down, letting the tones rise and linger in the air, then another few, weaving a melody, humming along.

His voice wasn't even remotely warmed up, but still, he sang that damn piece that he had failed to perform before, just so he could say he had done it today, at least to himself.

“Diese Holde dort zu sehen Und zu sprechen sie allein, Mich im Tanz mit ihr zu drehen, Soll mir eine Wonne sein. Eurer Wohlfahrt nur zu leben, Ist mein Trachten, mein Bestreben, Wird stets meine Sorge sein!”

The lines of the Count came out a bit wobbly, his voice not sung smooth enough for him to hold the baritone all the way through, but it was still a decent performance, nothing to earn him a solo spot, strained as his voice was.

He continued tinkering out the melody until he reached the thing he had actually wanted to sing. “Ja, ich muss die Holde sehen Und sie sprechen ganz allein...”, he went on.

Singing in Baritone had been a grossly insufficient warm-up and he felt it. Even in tenor, his singing voice struggled and strained against his throat. Hitting the notes was a challenge like this, but miracle of miracles he did it, singing the blasted thing all the way through, although he didn't even remotely feel like someone experiencing love – or at least some form of infatuation – and having his whole life brightened by it.

But still. Singing. No mistakes. That was worth something. His fingers tapered over the piano for a bit, playing bits and pieces of the “Wildschütz”, before ending up on yet another piece sung by the baron, confessing his love to the supposed commoner who caused him so much emotional suffering. “Von meiner heissen Lieb' allein Red' ich zu deinem Herzen. Wirst du noch ferner grausam sein, Erwachen alle Schmerzen Aufs neu in mir! Nicht trag' ich mehr dies Leben; preisgegeben Fühl' ich mich der Verzweiflung wieder; Ein tötend Gift oder Blei, einerlei, Gift oder Blei, was es auch sei, Soll mir willkommen sein, Zu enden meine Pein.“

The fact that the young woman he so desperately implored to marry him was his actual intended, and not some low-born and already engaged girl, didn't change the fact that he was most definitely not a role Yuuri would ever like to sing.

His fingers still flitted over the piano when he was done with the part, moving up and down and he didn't even notice that he had switched the major key, until his fingers made the familiar melody materialize in the room.

“Va, pensiero,“, his voice started to mumble, a whisper at first, “sull’ali dorate;va, ti posa sui clivi, sui colli,“ and slowly, it found its step into the melody, “ove olezzano tepide e molli l’aure dolci del suolo natal! Del Giordano le rive saluta...”

It was a wrecked, broken attempt at the song, but it still helped a bit

At the very least, Yuuri sighed, he would be able to relate better to such mournful songs, if he ever got a chance to sing them again.

“Del Giordano le rive saluta, di Sionne le torri atterrate…” His voice was harsher than usual when he sang this choir piece, rougher. Or maybe _he_ just felt rougher. “O mia patria sì bella e perduta! O membranza sì cara e fatal!” It certainly didn't fit with the mournful, resigned longing the Jews expressed for their long lost home.

He wanted to go home. He just... he just wanted to run and go back and be somewhere where he could be okay, where he might fit in without always sticking out, where people would not stare at him for his eyes and his face and his skin and...

“Arpa d’or dei fatidici vati, perché muta dal salice pendi?” The words came out in a strangled sob. “Le memorie nel petto raccendi, ci favella del tempo che fu!”

He was so weak. No wonder he couldn't perform properly, no wonder he was a failure, no wonder Celestino had sent him away. He couldn't even sing properly.

“O simile di Solima ai fati traggi un suono di crudo lamento, o t’ispiri il Signore un concento che ne infonda al patire virtù.”

The last few verses were choked out and Yuuri sank down to the floor, curling up next to the piano.

 

It wasn't until the small hours of the morning that he got up and moved and snuck out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this chapter and hopefully for continuing on doing so here.  
> First off:  
> The most recent and currently most famous ghost at the Scala would be that of Maria Callas. So, yeah, opera houses to kind of like this sort of thing.
> 
> Second:  
> Plot of that Wildschütz opera: School teacher wants to get married to cute village girl. Gets kicked from his position for supposedly shooting a deer on his landlord's grounds. Landlord being the count.  
> Wants to send his betrothed to plead for him, because Count likes cute girls.  
> Count has a sister who is recently widowed. Count wants to marry sister to his brother in-law and good friend, a baron.  
> Baron arrives in the disguise of a stableman. Woos the countess (his sister.)  
> Widowed baroness (sister of the Count) wants to take a look at her next intended and disguises herself as a student.
> 
> School teacher sees student. Student is pretty. Teacher wants to send him instead of his betrothed because eh, why not?
> 
> ... Count kinda-sorta falls in lust with his own sister. baron falls in lust with woman.  
> Woman is mistaken for a man.
> 
> ... supposed hilarity ensues.  
> ... this fucking thing is lucky it has really good music and some funny dialogue.
> 
> In any case... FORESHADOWING!!!!!!!!
> 
> Edit: I was stupid and did a critical research fail. The Semperoper as of today was built in the 1870's, after the original theatre on this site burned down in 1869. I fixed it and thankfully, it doesn't interfere with the plot. Bye, bye, Semperoper. Hello, Royal Court Theatre.  
> And remember, kids: do your research, even if you THINK and feel like you know this 100%.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are notes. And a dash of side OCs with maybe a hint of a cameo by my beta thegrimshapeofyoursmile. And a pissed of Yuri, but what's new about that?

**Chapter 03**

 

He went to the boarding house, the usual half-hour walk to the Bundschuhstraße seemingly endless tonight , and arrived when the sky was just beginning to take on that transparent, unreal grey that announced the upcoming burst of colour that was the sunrise, sneaking in without anybody noticing.

When he undressed – carefully as to not rise his room mates – and slipped under his blanket, the sky was already tinted in rosy golden tones.

Yuuri couldn't care less. As soon as his head touched the pillow, his eyelids, already heavy from the exhaustion and a woken-through night , lowered and he fell into a dreamless, light sleep.

He managed to sleep through the rustle and bustle of four men waking up, getting dressed and talking to each other about last night and what they had planned for this day.

It lasted only a few hours; when he woke up, the sun had fully risen, but was still standing fairly low.

His stomach was a tight, painful knot with a hollow centre; it was enough to almost make him vomit. In addition, his throat was raw and every little swallow he did set it on fire.

Very likely he sounded like a horseshoe run over a washing board. Even if Mr. Feltsman had not already sent him home to for the next few days , he most certainly would have done so now.

So, there he was, with a few days off. What was he to do with this time?

Most definitely not getting breakfast now. Mrs Haubener would kill him if he asked for her to warm up the kitchen again and honestly, Yuuri had better uses for his little money in mind than to go to an inn. Maybe he'd stop at a bakery. Or maybe just try and risk his life to get some hot tea from Mrs. Haubener or one of her helpers. (Tea wasn't as troublesome as a whole breakfast.)

Or maybe, he decided as he got dressed, he'd skip that as well. It wouldn't be the first time he went hungry for a day or so, even though the last time was a very, very distant memory and it had been a rather short period of poverty before Celestino was appointed head director of the Scala and could feed them properly again.

The mass was empty, sans a few couples who met there, sitting at a table and talking in a low murmur.

Yuuri discovered Georgi, who seemed to be in deep conversation with a dark-haired girl that looked like she was from the ballet corps.

Head lowered, he quickly ushered past them, but it was too late – Georgi looked up, noticed him and waved.

Oh no...

Yuuri wanted to hurry away, but he already had excused himself from his girl and was getting up and walking towards him.

So, Yuuri stayed.

Georgi came up to him. “Hey. You ok?”

Of course. Yuuri's throat clenched up a bit and he coughed slightly. “I... I think I'm fine. I guess. Mr. Feltsman told me to take a few days off.”

“Do so. He'll get mad if you show your face at the opera house when he ordered you to rest.” Georgi lifted a hand to place it on Yuuri's shoulder, but then had the good sense to leave it be. “I... well, I was worried when you didn't come back last night. Johannes too. You were out?”

“Not really.” Yuuri shook his head. “Hid in one of the practise rooms, actually.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Sorry.”

Now the hand did land on Yuuri's shoulder. “It's alright. You don't look too good, though.”

As if Yuuri didn't know that. “Just need some fresh air.” He swallowed. “Thanks for worrying.”

Georgi smiled. “Get well, I, uh...”

“No more plans on making your ex-fianceé regret her life choices?” Yuuri asked.

Georgi shrugged. “Maybe. A little. But Maria is just so sweet and kind and...”

Yuuri felt a chuckle bubble up in his throat. “Then get back to her. I hear girls don't take kindly to being left waiting.”

Georgi laughed. “Hear d that too – so... you're here tonight?”

“Probably. Got to let Johannes know I'm still alive.” With a last smile and a wave he was out and on the street.

It was a bright, warm day in middle of May, the air scented with bright, fresh green and flowers and the promise of maybe a shower later the day, with thick, fluffy clouds building up on the horizon.

A soft breeze ushered through the streets, messing up his hair a bit and carrying the scents of the nearby Elbe , and Yuuri found himself following that breeze there.

The riverbanks were a favourite spot of many a town dweller to enjoy some fresh air and greenery and watch the ships and boats and ferries pass.

But today was a Friday, not an actual workday for most people. The only folks Yuuri saw here today were either of the Bohemién profession or one of the odd Mohammedans – or possibly both, who knew?

The banks were blissfully deserted and he let himself fall down here, smelling the water, rich and full and without that strangely dulling, somewhat mouldy bite the sea held.

Yuuri found it slightly lacking, thanks to that, but it was better than what he had had in Milan. Before coming there, Celestino and him had spent a few years – some of them in wealth, some in decent circumstances, half of one in poverty – in Naples, near the sea, the scent of which had never truly left Yuuri. Maybe one day, again.

Right now, the Elbe was enough for him, sitting there, looking at the water and the boats passing by.

It was cathartic, imagining the water taking on any and all of his worries and carrying them away as it moved and ran and hurried towards the sea.

So, where to go from here? Him freezing up under duress wasn't new. In fact, Yuuri strongly suspected it to be the reason why Celestino had sent him away in the first place.

He could go back, of course. Celestino would be sad, maybe disappointed, but he would welcome Yuuri back with open arms nonetheless, no matter what.

Yuuri didn't want to go back. Yuuri didn't want to look him in the eye and say , “I messed up. I've failed. I'm sorry.”

Didn't change the fact that he wanted to go home, wherever that might be, whether Milan or Naples or just anywhere.

A few boats floated by, men on deck working the ropes and oars. Yuuri could hear their calls even up here the river banks.

Noon came and went and he watched the sun go around, people wander by in a peaceful afternoon stroll, with nobody paying him attention.

Just as well.

“Ah, there you are.”

And his alone time was over.

Yuuri sighed and turned around.

Yuri Plisetsky stood next to him, looking down at him.

Something didn't look quite right about him, although Yuuri had no idea what it was . 

In any case, his presence most definitely wasn't anything he desired.

“Go away,” he mumbled.

Yuri Plisetsky snorted. “Hey, it's not like I wanna spend my free time running around this stupid city, looking for your stupid ass!” He sounded decidedly miffed and Yuuri felt a spike of annoyance at it.

“Well, here I am, you found me, congratulations, you can go now.”

Yuri Plisetsky came one small step closer to him. “Eh,” he mumbled, arms crossed, staring at the water. “Well, as I said, the realms of how much you can suck are still left to be explored, at least. It's still all open.”

“So, me not being able to sing isn't the biggest failure you can imagine?” Yuuri snorted.

“You could switch to falsetto all of a sudden.”

“Thank you, I like my throat intact and my ears not bleeding.”

“Good. You in falsetto would suck and you'd look awful in a dress.”

Yuuri looked the boy up and down in all his slenderness and sharp, clear angles. “Unlike you?”

True enough, Yuri turned a nasty shade of violet, although he did seem to shrug it off with genuine ease.

“You'll probably grow out of it in two or three years anyway.”

“Can't wait for it. Dresses are annoying. How do women do it?”

Yuuri shrugged. “Ask a woman, how would I know?”

There was a moment of silence before Yuri Plisetsky asked, “What sort of girl roles did you have?”

“Mostly chorus when I was younger, the usual.” Yuuri shrugged. “When my voice changed, I got an alto on occasion, for a verse or so, but about three years ago Celestino and the costume department finally agreed that I didn't make for a convincing woman any more and arrivederci, hoop skirts and wigs.”

“Hoop skirts,” Yuri muttered with clear disgust.

“So, you still sing girl roles despite being an established soloist?”

“Sometimes,” Yuri nodded. “If there's demand and need.” He made a face. “Or if a rich and influential patron wishes to be delighted,” Yuuri muttered without much thought.

It had the effect of Yuri giving him a sidelong glance and he shrugged. “Keeping the illusion of pretty little Miss Songbird intact.”

“Nobles are weird,” Yuri sighed, “Not that this is in anyway news. They were ok though?”

They had been, maybe because Celestino had insisted of always coming along. Still, the implication needled him. “I doubt you went through the trouble of finding me just to chat about girl roles. What's the matter? Want...” He struggled for a moment with the German language, before giving up and switching to Italian. “If you just want to laugh at me, kindly piss off.”

Yuri blinked at him, then answered in Italian as well. “You don't look like you usually use such speech.” In Italian he had a thick accent, that sounded not at all German. It reminded Yuri more of how Georgi spoke German.

“I wish I could say the same about you, but well. So, what do you want?”

Yuri now started digging through his pockets and all of a sudden the sense of wrongness was gone.

Yuuri had never before seen the boy with anything but varying degrees of scowling as his default expression. The very idea of Yuri Plisetsky expressing something like friendly interest in someone else was - Yuuri did not want to find it disturbing, but that was what it was.

“There was a message for you. I was ordered to bring it to you.” He handed Yuuri an envelope.

He took it. No address, no name, nothing. “Why would you think this is for me?”

“Because that idiot told me so,” Yuri grumbled. “Blergh. You’ll be back tomorrow?”

Yuuri thought about it for a  bit. He still didn't want to face Mr. Feltsman or any of the other singers.

But then again, he had never gotten much rest in Milan.

“If you fall, you get back up and go on. If you stop for too long, you won't start again at all,” Celestino had always said. Celestino also wouldn't have been happy with him having a day off.

Yuuri should have protested against Mr. Feltsman giving him the day off, he really should.

“Yes, I will,” he nodded.

“Good. See you then.” Yuri turned around and wandered off, posture stiff and shoulders high, some fair strands of his hair fluttering, having gotten loose from the band in his neck.

And it still rubbed him wrong, somehow, but well.

He turned the envelope in his hands and then, finally , opened it. 

It was only a short note in a very precise, clear handwriting, with only one large, flowing loop on the last letter that underlined the whole note.

_Your voice is admirable_

What? Just, what?!

Yuuri blinked, then looked up to where Yuri Plisetsky was still wandering along the riverbanks.

Head running with various incantations of “What the hell?!” Yuuri got up and followed him, steps large and brisk.

He quickly caught up to him. “Wait, hey!”

Yuri Plisetsky halted and turned around, one eyebrow raised. “Huh? What?”

Yuuri swallowed, then held out the note to him. “I don't think you've written this?”

The boy crinkled his nose in dismay. “What, no, why?”

As expected. Yuuri let out a deep breath. “This is cruel, mean and... and...” Focus, Yuuri, focus. “Whoever wrote this  should  better look for someone else to pick on.”

Yuri blinked up on him, then looked at the note. “Urgh,” he muttered and Yuuri was very sure to hear him mumble something about , “Told him it was a bad idea.” Then he sighed. “Fine.”

Fine? Just fine? No complaining, no insulting, nothing? Just “fine”? Yuuri wondered if everything was all right with the boy.

“See you tomorrow then.” With that, Yuri Plisetsky once again turned and took his leave.

Well, that still left him the whole afternoon to get through and he probably could not sit on the riverbank forever.

So, what to do now?

Going back to the boarding house would have been silly. At that time, there would be nobody Yuuri actually knew too well. Today's evening performance was a small concerto, so Georgi was on duty tonight. He would not be there and Yuuri still hadn't made any closer friends here.

So, maybe another stroll during the city.

He put on his hat, pulling the rim deep into his face, walking for a bit along the river until he reached one of the many large, richly carved sand stone bridges that connected the northern half of the city with the southern old town.

He wandered up into the north half of the city, sauntering along the Elbe here now as well, admiring the Canaletto view he had so often seen on water colour paintings or in sketches and how the full, round dome of the Church of Our Lady rose behind the August bridge and contrasted with the slender, high-pointed spire of the Royal Court Church that looked on to the river like a ship sailing upstream, only missing its sail. Behind the Court Church the Castle Dresden rose, and to the right the church was flanked by the theatre building.

Pitch black and set off with accents of gold and green-aged copper roofs , the churches and the castle stood in stark contrast to the bright, creamy yellow of the Royal Theatre; the building had been finished only seven years prior, the sand stone hadn't had the time yet to darken with years and weather. 

The silhouette set the sky ablaze in glassy clear, bright blue that just went on and on and on in what had to be layers and layers of the same, transparently vibrant hue, all laid over another.

Such a lovely day.

And here he was, apparently not even able to enjoy it.

Inwardly, Yuuri groaned. As if thinking like that had ever helped him or had ever changed anything – hell, thinking like that had not even changed the fact that he thought like that.

The green of the Königsufer meadow was almost biting in his eyes and it was a relief when he reached the Albrecht bridge and could turn back towards the time-blackened sand stone buildings that gave Dresden its character.

The dark, for today empty and abandoned square of the Neustadt Market place was almost balm for his eyes in its somberness. Maybe minus the rather tacky, fire-gilt statue of a horse rearing, rider on his back looking eastward. Yuuri saw it, looked up to it and immediately decided to have never seen anything so utterly ugly in his entire life. Well, maybe Angelique Farbenieu's smallest, yappiest and rattiest dog was about as ugly, but only by a hair and by virtue of sharp teeth.

Germans, he decided, had let French tastes influence them way too much. Of course, the only genuinely French thing he had ever seen had been Angelique Farbenieu and her admittedly angelic singing, but that was very much enough to sate his curiosity for anything French for life.

But well. Celestino had told him to take a look at the Golden Rider if he found the time. He could now consider this done. Good. What else was there to do for him?

“Hey? Yuuri!”

Apparently, it was the day for him to run into theatre acquaintances, despite him not even being there.

Turning around , he saw Johannes waving at him, flanked by two women. He was smiling. “Hey, good to see you out!”

“Yes, It was such a nice day and staying stuck inside would probably have driven me crazy.”

One of the women - still a girl, really- glanced to him. “Johannes, who is this young man? Someone from the theatre?”

“Oh yes, I am so sorry. This is Yuuri Kahtzucki. Fellow tenor in the chorus.”

Yuuri had long since given up on correcting the way people pronounced his name. It didn't change a thing and hell, how would Yuuri himself know? Celestino knew some Japanese, along with Chinese, Russian, French, Spanish and Greek, and had tried his best to keep Yuuri's knowledge of his mother tongue alive, but Yuuri still hoped to never get into a situation where his lack of fluency might be revealed.

He smiled politely at the two women.

“This is my sister Johanna,” Johannes said, gesturing at the girl. She hinted at a curtsy and likewise, Yuuri hinted at a bow. “You see how much thought our parents put into naming us?”

“I am truly impressed.” Curses upon curses for his Italian accent. It had always raised far too many questions.

Miss Johanna smiled.

“And this,” Johannes continued, pointing to the older woman, “is Mrs. Eleonora Awesfeld, a great patron of the stage and the performing arts.”

Mrs. Awesfeld, tall, thin and dark haired, smiled kindly, exuding an air of subdued elegance. “Oh, I do remember having seen you perform in the chorus.” She did not curtsy. Yuuri in turn bowed a bit deeper than for Miss Johanna. “Johannes said you're from Milan?” Yuuri prayed to be spared a comment on his looks at least once. “How do you like it here in Dresden?” she asked, “I imagine you must be cold here considering the Italian climate.”

Oh, good. He could deal with that. Yuuri nodded. “It is a bit colder than what I know. But the days are getting warmer, so it is all good. And Dresden is a lovely city.” The golden statue blinked in the sun. “For the most part.”

Mrs. Awesfeld chuckled. “Oh yes, our great and gracious Prince Elector and King of Poland. We all love him.”

“My dear, you are not even from Dresden,” Johannes chided kindly, “you don't understand how important this piece of ugliness is to us.”

“And hopefully I never will,” Mrs. Awesfeld sighed.

“You must miss home awfully lot, Mr. Kahtzucki?” Johanna inquired. “I imagine Dresden is quite different from Milan?”

She looked a lot like her brother,  with the  same heart-shaped face and long nose and round eyes and the same grey eyes and dirty blonde hair that was taken back in two neat braids.

However, her gaze was decidedly more unsettling than the way Johannes had looked at him when they had first met.

“It is, yes. I guess, every city in every country is different,” Yuuri answered after a moment's pause. “But thankfully, music is pretty universal. As long as there's an opera house I will always feel at home somewhere.”

Mrs. Awesfeld looked at Johannes with something like playful resentment. “My, my. We were told his new colleague was gifted with a wonderful voice, but you also seem to have a bit of a poet's touch, huh?”

“Well, Italians have a way with words,” Miss Johanna interjected. “But yes, Johannes did praise your voice up and above. Say, Mr. Kahtzucki, do you plan on any solo roles? We would be looking forward to this.”

A trickle of ice ran down Yuuri's throat and collected in his stomach. He noticed how Johannes looked at him and then shifted his weight from one leg on another.

Yuuri swallowed. “Presently not, no.”

“But why? Since my brother praises your voice so highly, you surely are good enough to try out. Johannes does it pretty often.”

Something in Yuuri's stomach turned hard and cold. He could feel the smile freeze on his lips. His fingers started trembling and he quickly folded his hands behind his back. Also, he straightened his shoulders. Celestino had always recognized these quirks as signs that something was amiss, but thankfully, Johannes was not privy to such embarrassing knowledge.

“And I have yet to land anything, so I am not sure why this would be of any importance,” Johannes replied quite hastily.

Mrs. Awesfeld laughed. “Well, well, you are still very young. Your voice will develop a bit more with age and practise. Rarely a singer gets a solo part in their twenties. With some notable exceptions, of course, and Johannes, really, you do need to introduce me to Mr. Plisetsky!”

“He barely speaks to the chorus singers, though,” Johannes pointed out. “That will make this endeavour somewhat difficult for now.”

“Aw,” she sighed, “that's just too bad.”

Miss Johanna tugged at Johannes' sleeve. “I fear we have to take our leave now. Mr. Kahtzucki, it was a pleasure.”

Somehow, Yuuri sincerely doubted that, at least on her behalf.

He bowed, then clasped hands with Johannes.

“You'll be back tomorrow?”

“Yes.” Yuuri nodded.

“You ok, though?”

“I think so. Gotta be.” He wasn't, not really, but that was beside the point. Yuuri sighed. “Thank you.”

“Anytime. Sorry about Johanna, she never quite mastered the subtle art of tact.”

Yuuri smiled. “It's okay. Are you on stage tonight?”

“Yeah. We're just out for a bite, before I have to head back to the theatre.” Johannes leaned in closer. “Eleonora tries to make it to every of my performance nights and Johanna is always so insulted if she gets left out.” He rolled his eyes. “Women.”

“Now that's a set of worries I'd like to have.” Yuuri managed a chuckle, while the knot tightened. “See you tomorrow.”

 

Tomorrow came too early for his taste. Waking up, Yuuri felt again the cold, hard knot in his stomach. Just that, by now it seemed to have risen up right under his throat and Yuuri very much did not like the feeling of it. Could he sing like that? 

Probably not, but he still had to show his face, so up and dressed he got, walked downstairs, grabbed a mug of strong, black tea (which did not count as a meal, so none of his precious meal marks were spent on this) and, after downing it in a few big gulps, headed out.

The heat was a blessing, searing down his throat in a way that would have sent Celestino into mad, raging fits and lectures  about  how he was supposed to take care of his voice.

But it melted the ice in his throat and warmed and softened the hard knot in his stomach a bit and it helped him to notice the sweetness of the air and how cloudless the sky was as he stepped out quicker, faster.

The half-hour walk towards the theatre was over far too quickly.

For a moment, Yuuri closed his eyes, took a deep breath – his throat struggled against it, but finally, finally gave in to this request – and then again, again, again , until he finally could trust himself again to breathe properly.

Only then he approached the door of the side entry and entered the warm, softly dark corridors that made up the back scenery of the theatre.

Upon entering, his throat tightened again and again Yuuri paused, breathing in and out, in and out, in and out.

No need to fret, no need to worry. It would be alright.

Still, his feet dragged a bit as he headed towards the backstage area.

Coming closer , he already heard the voices of his fellow singers and it gave him another moment of pause.

Then he heard steps behind him, someone calling “Morning, Yuuri!” and then they passed himwithout even so much as a throwaway glance.

Oh. So maybe it would be ok?

Maybe he would be spared too many stares and comments then?

With a deep sigh, he went up the stairs and headed out for the stage. “Uh. Morning.”

Most of the other singers were already there, only three or four faces still missing. Some of them looked up as he came out, but aside of a few nods and short calls of “Morning!” , nothing happened .

All of a sudden, breathing got a lot easier and he nodded in reply.

Down in his chair they saw Mr. Feltsman looking up to them, clearly impatient for them to get ready to start warm ing up and then  to  begin with their practise.

The last few missing members of their troupe sauntered in, they greeted each other and then lined up, all the while Mr. Feltsman called, “All right, all right, everyone, tea party is over, let's get to work! We start with the  _Magic Flute_ and then go through the chorus pieces of the  _Tannhäuser_ . Since this is so blessedly short, we'll start going through the chorus verses for the  _Wildschütz_ afterwards. Premiere is in four weeks, don't you dare not being properly familiar with the score by then.”

Yuuri's stomach once again started to flutter, but still, no glances, no meaningful grin in his direction, nothing. Great. He wasn't familiar with Wagner, really great.

Nobody seemed to notice if his voice was a bit wobbly at the “Es lebe Sarastro, Sarastro soll leben!”

It definitely made it easier and the wobbliness of his voice was gone when they went through “Oh Isis und Osiris schenket der Weisheit Geist dem neuen Paar!”

And at the very least, nobody acted different around him than usual, so he also could conclude that either the sender of that stupid note wasn't among his chorus mates or if the was, that he or she considered it enough. In that case, Yuuri heartily agreed with whomever it was.

When they went through the  _Tannhäuser_ pieces, he was silent, listening closely. The chorus didn't have much to do in this opera, only two four-liners. Would be easy to memorise. 

Rehearsing something new tended to take its sweet time as well as their full attention.

They didn't even notice how the time went by or how other people came up behind the curtains, patiently waiting for their turn to practise and rehearse.

And maybe, just potentially, they did take a little too long to finish up, yes.

Still, Yuuri couldn't help but finding it incredibly rude when a voice started yelling behind them. “How long you gonna waste other people's time, eh?!”

Johannes sighed. “Plisetsky is as charming as ever, eh?”

“Don't tell me you'd expect anything less from him,” Yuuri replied, equally dry. “You should try to introduce him to your Eleonora. Maybe we'd even get to witness him display something resembling well-mannered behaviour.”

“Yeah or he'd shock her into a heart attack.” Their formation was beginning to break loose, a process clearly catalysed by the rather annoyed looks Plisetsky had for them. Yuuri decided that it probably was for the best for him to just duck and usher past him before the boy got yet another idea about how to pick on him.

Oh sweet Mother Mary , he was scared of a not yet fully grown brat. How much lower could he sink? Then again, he mused, he could always resort to rich and influential patrons with a taste for oriental faces and bodies inhabited by a Western mind and soul to rise up here. Yes, that would probably be the lowest level to sink to.

With a deep breath, wedged between Johannes and a bass singer named Thomas, head lowered, Yuuri wandered off the stage.

“Oi, Katsuki!”

Dammit.

Slowly, very slowly, Yuuri turned around. “Yes? What's it?”

Plisetsky stood behind him and held out an envelope. “There.”

What?

Yuuri looked to the envelope, then back to Plisetsky's face. “What?”

“Gah, take it already!” The envelope was pushed into Yuuri's hands and Plisetsky turned away. “And get it over with!”

Him heading out onto the stage probably meant that he would be left alone.

Well, not quite. Johannes glanced at the envelope in Yuuri's hand. “Love letter?”

Yuuri, again, looked at the envelope, then raised an eyebrow towards Johannes. “I think that quite unlikely, but thank you for your confidence in me.”

“I mean, could be. The boy could have a sister or something – if he got more than one, introduce me, will you?”

“You already have both a hopefully wealthy patron and a younger sister, no need to stack up on these.”

“I agree on the sister part.” Johannes shrugged. “Patrons, though, you can never have too many of these.”

Yuuri chuckled, tucking the envelope away. “Well, I'll see what this thing is, and then I try and find out whether Plisetsky has a sister for you. And if she's just as delightful as he is.”

“Thank you.” Johannes grinned. “Gotta go now. Johanna's been threatening me not to be late for lunch or she'll chew me out.”

Well, yesterday she certainly had seemed chew-happy, Yuuri mused. Better Johannes didn't test his luck then.

Yuuri waved him goodbye and then turned around to find a suitable spot for him to read whatever prank note he had gotten now.

Really, as bratty as Plisetsky was, Yuuri had thought him above partaking in any way in such childish stupidities.

A suitable spot was found on the gallery above the entrance hall, behind the high balustrades that overlooked the main door. Crouching there, no one would spot him from below and up here, nobody would mind one of the singers hiding out, reading a letter. It wasn't a too uncommon sight anyway, many a chorus girl or ballet dancer had spent their off time here and usually, when Yuuri had stumbled across them, they had been smiling, or, if they shared the letter's contents with a friend, giggling.

Yuuri very much preferred to be left alone with this, in no small part because he didn't trust himself not to hiss and cuss audibly and there was no need to let anyone hear that.

The envelope was of the same quality than the last one. So probably the same prankster?

Yuuri snipped it open.

Another short note and again in that swooping writing

_Do not presume I am anything but sincere. Your voice is truly wonderful. With your permission I will take the liberty to listen to your singing more frequently._

Didn't sound like he was actually asking, more like announcing it , and Yuuri found that he very much not cared for that, prank or not. Honestly, if it was a prank, it had to rank among the five most tasteless Yuuri had ever experienced or witnessed.

For a while he sat there, still as a statue, barely breathing. This thing warranted a reaction, although Yuuri had not the faintest idea which one. Both a harsh call out and an attempt to play along could be read as an invitation to go on and have it escalate and one thing Yuuri was  _very_ sure about was that he would not take that well.

Maybe displaying slight, bemused disinterest then? That was the likeliest way to get the prankster to stop. Of course, there was the off chance that bemused disinterest would fan the prank flames even more and again, this was very much not an agreeable prospect to Yuuri.

He sighed and then looked up when there was a rustle at the end of the corridor.

But nobody was there. Or maybe there was, but since Yuuri couldn't see anyone, he was probably supposed not to act on that.

So, Yuuri turned his attention back to the note, fiddling with his legs so he could reach into the pocket of his trousers, fishing for a stub of a pencil.

The thing was short and gnawed on and in dire need of a sharpener, but it was enough for a short answer.

Yuuri turned the note around, staring at the blank paper. He still could see traces of the ink through the paper.

He flattened it over his knee and then put the first stroke on paper.

The pencil necessitated him to write in large and somewhat clumsy letters, but then again, it was a short note, not a passionate love letter over ten pages.

_Maybe you should consider spending your free time listening to our soloists. It most certainly would be less of a waste than continuing this joke._

Yes, that would suffice. He put the note back into the envelope, carefully closing it, before heading back behind the stage.

The soloists were still practising their parts for the _Wildschütz_. Day after tomorrow, Yuuri knew, they would start rehearing it together, probably for a week or two before dress rehearsals would start.

Yuri Plisetsky was sitting this one out, having no part in this play. Instead he was crouching on the floor, leafing though what looked like musical scores for another play, fingers tapping a meter on his knee.

Yuuri waited for him to look up from his papers and notice him before coming closer.

Plisetsky raised an eyebrow. “Oh. You.”

“Yeah, hello again.” Yuuri dug out the envelope. “Really, it's getting annoying. Whoever writes these has too much time on their hands.”

Plisetsky blinked at him. “What?”

“As I said, it is annoying. It wasn't even funny yesterday, so tell whoever is behind that to stop, if you wouldn't mind.”

Plisetsky shook his head, but he took the envelope without a fuss and put it away. “Fine. See you tomorrow.” He waved, a clear sign that Yuuri was to leave.

And so he did, wandering off, again to a small, empty room in the back of the building to practise some more in private, just to be sure.

After this, the whole day was waiting for him. Tomorrow again practise and in the evening performance, but today, he had a free afternoon.

 

Yuuri hadn't really hoped for the prank to be over just because he had said so. This decision wasn't his to make, after all.

So, after an afternoon of pondering, meeting up with Georgi, supper and a nights sleep that was uncharacteristically long and peaceful, he went to morning practise, greeted Johannes and was kindly informed that he was invited for lunch by his patron, along with Johannes himself and Miss Johanna.

He sang through all his parts and wasn't even surprised when Yuri Plisetsky placed himself right into his path.

Yuuri had to suppress an eye roll and turned to Johannes. “Would you wait a bit ahead? I won't take long.”

Johannes glanced to Plisetsky. “Alright. But really, hurry, will you?”

“I will.”

Johannes then headed off and Yuuri turned to Plisetsky. “So?”

The boy glared at him before holding out an envelope.

Yuuri sighed. “Really, whoever this is, this person has too much time at hands.”

Plisetsky rolled his eyes and mumbled something that sounded like , “You don't say”. Louder, he said: “Now take it and for God's sake, take care of it, do I look like a pigeon that you give me letters to deliver or what?!”

“Well, it's not like I started it,” Yuuri commented.

“Ugh. Whatever. Just keep me out of this shit.” Plisetsky turned around and headed back to the stage.

Yuuri looked down at the envelope and then tucked it away for later , walking out to meet up with Johannes.

 

Their engagement to lunch meant for Johannes to lead them to one of the houses surrounding the Neumarkt, the ones with the creamy, pale yellow paint and the high roofs.

Yuuri looked it up and down. “Your Eleonora is well-to-do,” he commented while they looked out for Miss Johanna. Yuuri prayed she'd hurry; despite the summer-like quality of the last few days, today it was quite chilly and low hanging, greyish-white clouds were already announcing rain, very likely the spraying, drizzling sort that came with a generally damp air that crept into the bone and would leave a chill there for hours after one had entered a warm, dry room. Bone-deep chills were definitely something Yuuri could do without.

“Oh, she is,” Johannes admitted, smiling. “And look who's coming in last.” He nodded to his sister who was heading up to them in what looked like a rather brisk step. Her cheeks were aflame and as she came closer, her eyes looked rather red. 

Johannes' face shifted from light amusement to worry.

Yuuri looked around. “Oh... That facade over there... it kinda looks nice,” he mumbled. “You don't mind if I take a closer look for a second?”

The look Johannes gave him was almost disconcerting in its gratitude and Yuuri hurried to get across the street where he could admire the most boring pale orange stucco house front that had ever existed , all the while having Johannes in his line of sight.

He walked the last few steps to his sister, placing a hand on her shoulder , and Yuuri could hear them talking to each other, Miss Johanna accompanying her words with sharp nods and shakes of her head.

Finally he hugged her and Yuuri quickly turned away, focusing on the house front again. Yes, very pretty. The colour was applied so evenly. Really nice. Very soothing for his eyes with its lack of stucco or other ornamentation. Very nice to look at, really nice.

Johannes by now had let go of his sister and put a grim smile on his face. Yuuri took it as a cue to come back.

As he was back in front of the yellow house , Johannes said: “We'll figure something out. If necessary we'll sue.”

Miss Johanna laughed, short and sharp and brittle as glass. “And from what money?”

He sighed and then repeated, “We'll figure something out.” But he sounded rather defeated and mumbled, “We should get in” , before pressing the bell button.

A soft, bright ringing came through the door and a few moments later they heard footsteps.

A maid in a blue-and-white striped linen dress opened the door to them and did a short curtsy. “Mr. Ebert, Miss Ebert, Mr...”

“Katsuki,” Yuuri helped her out, dearly hoping that Johannes would take note of how Yuuri pronounced his own name.

The girl nodded. “The mistress awaits you in the parlour. Lunch will be served in a moment.”

They shrugged off their coats and hanged them by themselves before Johannes took the lead and led them into a well-lit, richly coloured sitting room full of figurines and framed photographs. On the wall Yuuri saw a large picture, showing a slightly younger Mrs. Eleonora and a not really young gentleman sitting side by side on a park bench, surrounded by greenery.

In the middle of the room, draped in dark red and russet striped silk, Mrs. Eleonora waited for them, raising to her feet as they entered.

Johannes hurried towards her and kissed her hand.

She smiled as Miss Johanna, cheeks still red-flecked , did a small curtsy and Yuuri kissed her hand as well . “How sweet of you all to come.”

“We have to thank you for your invitation,” Johannes smiled, “it's always nice to know that some patrons are aware how precious a day-to-day meal can be.”

“Well, you two had practise this morning, you are bound to be hungry and... Johanna, dear, where were you engaged this morning?”

Miss Johanna straightened her shoulders. “The Rottenbergs.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Eleonora clucked her tongue. “Well, they at least feed you a proper breakfast.” She turned to Yuuri. “You take care of your nourishment as well, I hope?”

“Oh, yes, I... the boarding house I live at grants you seven meals a week.”

“Good.”

Of course, Yuuri's breakfast-free stomach decided that this was the perfect moment to rumble a bit.

Yuuri sighed. “Well, I had some tea this morning?”

Johannes rolled his eyes. “How can you even sing on an empty stomach this early in the morning?”

Yuuri shrugged. “Practised, well-perfected habits, I guess.”

Johanna stared at him. “My dear brother, your friends are all, all of them, extremely weird.”

Mrs. Eleonora chuckled. “Well, let's just hope the lunch is enough to fill you all up, considering its humble nature.”

Johannes did a small, slightly mocking bow. “Lead the way.”

Mrs. Eleonora led them only one door away into a small dining room, with somewhat smaller windows and definitely less clutter.

Yuuri stopped and looked at another painting showing the same couple as in the parlour, both in different clothes and now simply sitting next to and slightly glancing at each other.

“My late husband,” Mrs Eleonora commented. “He never quite got the hang of photography. Always believed it would take a piece of his soul and he would prefer to meet The Lord as complete as possible.”

Yuuri considered the situation and found it appropriate for a joke. “Well, if that's true, I do hope photography takes the sinful parts of our souls,” he commented. “Less time in purgatory, which is always preferable in my book.”

Mrs. Eleonora gave him a blank look, before nodding. “Oh, right, you're from Italy.” Her smile was a bit strained and it occurred too late to Yuuri that the Catholic Mass he attended at Sunday did most definitely not host the majority of Dresden's Christian population. It also occurred to him – also too late – that some people might take slight umbrage with confessional differences.

Mrs. Eleonora found her countenance. “Well, sinful or not,” she said, “we all should strive to keep ourselves as whole and complete as possible, so we may be judged appropriately. Please, have a seat.”

Johannes had the role of holding Mrs. Eleonora's chair, so Yuuri did the same for Miss Johanna.

She sat down, nodding a short thank to him , and then both he and Johannes took their seats.

Lunch came, a simple, but plentiful affair of a clear vegetable soup with spring onions, carrots and potatoes, accompanied by slices of a dark, soft bread and hunks of cheese and cold meats.

As she had said, simple – Protestant, Yuuri was tempted to call it – but very satisfying, filling fare.

“Johanna, how are your students doing?” Mrs. Eleonora asked and Miss Johanna's head jerked up from her barely touched soup. “Oh. Uh, the younger Miss Ebert has progressed from Mozart to Bach and is a joy to teach. I think, though, that Mozart suits her temperament better.”

“Which will delight her father, without a doubt,” Johannes drawled, smiling, drawing attention on himself. “I remember when we performed the _Coffee_ _Cantata_ and he was singing the father Schlendrian. Yuuri, if you can, ask Plisetsky about it. He was Liesgen back then.”

“Oh, you're on good terms with our most celebrated star tenor then?” Mrs. Eleonora asked, clearly delighted.

Yuuri's face grew warm again. “Well, I wouldn't go as far as that, but he occasionally deigns to talk to me and he manages to remain somewhat civil most of the time.”

“Which essentially means that you're on good terms with him,” Johannes commented.

Yuuri noticed how Miss Johanna let out a deep breath and now finally took a bite of the cold Kasseler roast.

“Who knows, maybe he's just looking for someone new to annoy. I guess he's been through the whole theatre staff by now.”

Mrs. Eleonora raised an eyebrow. “Well, there is certainly not a shortage of people who'd be glad to be annoyed by him, if he wants that – and enough of them would be throwing quite substantial sums at him for the privilege.”

“If I get a chance to talk to him without running danger of being chewed out, I will certainly inform him of this fact,” Yuuri mumbled, focusing on the soft, chewy texture of the Kasseler.

The remainder of lunch was a somewhat silent affair, with them all focusing on the very good soup and the soft, hearty bread.

Yuuri knew that it would probably better if he left after lunch. Johannes was sending long, worried glances to his sister, who again had gotten quite pale and then a short glance to their gracious hostess.

So, whatever was troubling Miss Johanna, they probably wanted to talk to Mrs. Eleonora about it. Yuuri most definitely didn't want to eavesdrop in on that. These were private problems and probably of a delicate nature as well.

Stuff of delicate nature had occasionally happened in Milan too and if it came to Celestino's attention – which had always happened, because what good was a scandal if nobody talked about it? – , he had cursed up four circles of hell before seeing what he could do. Germans, or at least Saxonians , seemed to be a tad bit different in that regard.

Dessert was apple sauce with cinnamon , raisins and bits of almonds. Really good, yes, something like that he would really like to have at the boarding house on occasion, maybe for a holiday.

“I do hate to leave so early,” he finally said.

Johannes looked up to him and again Yuuri was supremely uncomfortable with the level of gratitude he displayed there.

He swallowed, hopefully unnoticed.

Mrs. Eleonora raised an eyebrow. “You are otherwise engaged, my dear?”

“Kind of,” Yuuri stammered, “I, I...”

“Oh dear, I should not have presumed! I am so sorry to have interrupted your plans!”

“No, really, it is nothing,” Yuuri tried to calm her, which only caused Mrs. Eleonora to furrow her brow a bit more.

“He is always quite eager to cram as much practise into a day as possible,” Johannes chuckled. “One of these days Feltsman will have to ban him from staying at the theatre outside of practise hours or performances.”

Mrs. Eleonora clucked her tongue. “Eager to please then?”

“I guess so?”

There was a moment of silence hanging in the air in which Mrs. Eleonora apparently tried to stare holes into his very body, all the while smiling. “So, something's good been saved through all those years of papism,” she finally conceded. “Very well. It has been a pleasure, my dear, please consider yourself my guest in the future as well.”

Yuuri managed to smile. “With pleasure.” He went around the table to kiss her hand and then repeated the action with Miss Johanna before leaving.

Through the closed door he heard Mrs. Eleonora commenting , “He is a bit of an odd duck, huh?” , and hurried to slip into his coat and hat. 

The envelope rustled against his fingers as he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat, when the maid led him out where to the promised rain had finally started.

So, what was his prankster saying now?

He hurried to get out of the drizzle and to somewhere dry and warm , which was how he found his way into a small library, taking off his hat as he entered.

The scent of paper and linen and leather reached out to him, wrapping itself around his arms and his back, gently tugging him in deeper , and Yuuri hung up his coat and followed.

A dark-clad woman behind a counter looked up and gave him a short, sharp once-over before turning her attention  back  to the book in front of her.

Which was just fine by Yuuri and he wandered into the back of the store, behind the shelves. Above his head a lamp illuminated the small, dark corridors that firmly placed Yuuri in the Histories section. Several biographies of Alexander the Great, Caesar and other Great Men Of Old, followed by chronicles of several German ruling houses and countries. A door stopper was a detailed report of the Russian Empress Catherine the 2 nd .

Yuuri made a mental note to come back at some point when he was able to spend more time to browse the shelves, take out one, leaf through it, but it back or take it with him to one of the well-lit reading areas.

As it was , he had only a few hours left before he was to show up again at the theatre and get ready for this evening's performance. Much of these few hours might very likely go to him trying to find back his balance which would be shaken by whatever the note contained. Thus, he only took a short glance through the history section before finding himself a small desk.

It was quiet and almost empty here today. No students, no bored young ladies, only two elderly women were sitting side by side, leafing through a book together, occasionally giggling like two young school girls.

Perfect.

Yuuri carefully placed the envelope in front of him.

Then proceeded to stare at it.

Then reached and pulled it closer.

And then let go of it again.

Then he pulled it closer. Sweet Mother Mary, this was stupid. Truth be told, as annoying as pranks were in general, it was kind of nice to hear that someone liked your voice. It wasn't true, of course , and this was what galled Yuuri so much, but the words themselves were honey, sweet and gentle and balm on his raw pride. 

Truth be told, he didn't really want this to stop.

But he also had been tired of this joke right after the first note. After all, there was probably not one single human being in this beautiful and occasionally very enervating world who actually actively liked being made fun of.

Would he now receive a continuation of the joke or an end of it? If he was completely honest, Yuuri wanted neither and he wanted both.

Damn it. (Confession next Sunday would include a lot of “I swore and used the name of our Lord in vain”. As usual. He suspected the priest was getting bored of him.)

With a sigh, he snipped the envelope open.

This note was a bit longer than the other two, he noticed, running over eight loopy lines. The scrawl, however , did not improve on this.

_I am sorry to have offended you. Please know that I do not mean ill and am indeed honest in my proclamations._

_Allow me to listen to you tonight at the performance and then apologize in person to you._

_I am usually listening from the empty attic room to the left of the stage. None of the stage hands goes there any more_ .

Ah. So apparently it  _was_ a thing for each and every damn theatre in the world to have both ghosts as well as cursed and forbidden rooms. 

Yuuri sighed. Figured.

_I would be most grateful if you joined me after the performance there._

_Please do not think ill of me._

_V._

Well, right now Yuri didn't know what to think one way or another, which was just as well, probably.

He folded the paper and carefully tucked it back into its envelope. This did, indeed, sound honest. Now what was he to make of it in that case? Show up, probably, and see who had written it. Get laughed at, potentially.

Or maybe not? What if not?

Urgh, there he went again. Rubbing his temple, Yuuri pocketed the note again. His mind started to frazzle a bit; that was not good. Better he took a walk or something to calm himself down before he worked himself up into a frenzy that would leave him with a blank mind, unable to think of anything than what had taken him in.

Slowly as to not disturb the women, he got up and wandered back through the corridors to the entrance, grabbed his coat and walked out.

It was still drizzling, now accompanied by a sharp gust of wind. It was welcome, the cold cutting through his thoughts and the droplets on his hands and his face causing him to long for the warmth and security of the theatre.

Good. Good, he was getting there, very good.

Also , the weather was really disgusting.

Reaching the theatre and slipping through the side entrance into the dark, warm coils of its innards was even more of a relief than it usually was, thanks to the weather.

His head was clearer too and while the thought of the note did pop up far more often than he would have liked, being here pulled his focus back to the performance tonight.

He watched the ballet go through a choreography for tonight before leaving the backstage area in favour of an empty practise room. Procuring one this time of the day was not an easy task; several singers and orchestra members had gotten the same idea and from behind each door Yuuri could hear voices and instruments, single or pairs and groups , and subsequently he walked on.

He could have joined one of the groups, of course, but then again, that would have involved the potential of them asking what was up with him and how his day was going , and no. Not to mention the potential that his prankster – it still felt like a prank, no matter how sincere the note appeared to be – would be in the room and ask questions and receive answers that they could use as fodder for their next move.

He wandered to the end of the corridor, listening to the noises from the last door.

Talking, very low voices, too low for him to hear exactly what they were saying.

One of them , though , sounded very much like Yuri Plisetsky and his mumble came out in sharp, hacked off intervals. Then, while the other voice remained low, Plisetsky's rose until he finally hissed something like , “Ack cheer force me!” before ripping open the door, almost slamming into Yuuri.

Yuuri quickly took a step back. “Sorry... uh... you... you were practising?”

Plisetsky blinked at him, eyes wide, face uncharacteristically open. “What... oh... yeah. Yeah, I am. Very much. Very practising. Don't wanna be disturbed.” He quickly pulled the door closed.

“Oh. Sorry.” Yuuri nodded. So, no room for him here. He better found something to occupy himself with for the next two hours, before preparations for tonight's performance would begin.

He turned to leave.

“Oi, uh... you know, I will not deliver any more notes, we clear on that?” Plisetsky stared up to him, eyes now as harsh and hard as Yuuri knew them.

He nodded. “You said so.”

“Good, so... you take care of this... thing then?” There was something in his voice that didn't quite match his glass-hard stare.

“I guess so...”

“Ah. Good, that's good.” The boy nodded, quickly, then cleared his throat. “Good.”

Yuuri took a deep breath. Better get some things cleared up. Before that, though, he cleared his throat. “So... just... just tell me, is this a prank or am I supposed to take it seriously?”

“What...” Plisetsky raised an eyebrow. “You're not asking this seriously, right?”

Yuuri furrowed his brow. “Actually, yes, I do.”

Plisetsky's other eyebrow rose. “Oh for fucks...”

Interesting to see someone so young use such foul language, but Yuuri wanted to survive tonight badly enough to keep this thought to himself.

“Well. No. No prank, no joke. Just go and see and for God's sake, leave me alone with this shit, it's annoying!”

Yuuri snorted. “Well,  _you_ brought those notes to me, so, you could have stayed out of it right from the start, right?”

Plisetsky looked at him like he wanted to claw his eyes out and Yuuri took a step back.

Then the boy sighed. “Whatever. Just go there and – yeah, whatever. See you later.” With that he turned around and slipped back through the door.

“See you later, I guess,” Yuuri mumbled, weakly and turned away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and for all the lovely feedback. You all are making my life, especially when I again have to research yet another opera that fits the time and mood at the time (so basically for Dresden it better be German, but no Wagner. ... joy) and the voice of the key parts.   
> (I bet Yuroshka would be less grouchy if there were more revolutionary operas for them to perform, but... yay for Zeitgeist. :D )
> 
> Also, I am opening up commissions again, so if you are interested, check out my tumblr for more info, give me a call and - thanks for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they meet.

**Chapter 04**

 

Johannes came in last minute, earning himself a disapproving look from Mr . Feltsman as he looked them over and grumbled “Behave, you lot , and make us proud, will you?!”, before shooing them off to change into their costumes.

Yuuri looked at him from the side as the powder pot went from hand to hand for them to whiten their faces with.

Johannes was pale enough that the powder would not have made much of a difference, his mouth set in a firm, grim line. Yuuri would have liked to ask what the trouble was and if he could help, but something in Johannes' eyes dissuaded him from that idea. 

They finished up. They went backstage, pushing knees and elbows with the ballet dancers and being shot some dirty looks from the dancers when a hand remained too long on a white-clad back.

Then the dancers were on stage. The music started. The curtain rose and the girls started dancing, stepping light as feathers, jumping and twirling as if attempting to fly and almost succeeding..

They used the time of the first scene to warm up and then they were out in the light, Yuuri blinked and sang and they were off-stage again even before his eyes had gotten used enough to the too-bright light to make out the audience. 

Once they were back in the dark, blinking, grasping  moles, Yuuri let out a sigh.

“At least that went well,”Johannes commented next to him.

By now, Yuuri could make out the schemes off his surroundings and he put on his glasses .

Yes, much better. 

"So, your talk with Mrs. Awesfeld didn't go so well?"

"Depends on what you’re referring to, but she's still my patron. That’s something, I guess.” Johannes rubbed his temples. “Thanks for before. Johanna appreciated it. She sends her regards.”

“It's alright.” Yuuri blinked against the darkness of the offstage, set off by the gas lights and candles and the occasional brightness from the stage.

Johannes didn't look too well. 

“So, could Mrs. Awesfeld help?” Yuuri finally asked, while someone handed out cool jugs of young, foamy apple wine that came from bottles sporting labels with long, complicated words, among them “Cidre aux pommes” in large, flowing lettering. Both Yuuri and Johannes declined. “No alcohol until we're through,” Yuuri laughed, while Johannes scoffed, “Keep that French piss away from me, will you?!”

He then turned back to Yuuri. “She promised to try. But...” Johannes sighed. “It's not easy. It's... damn.”

Miss Johanna had to be in real trouble. Yuuri pondered that given the two instances where they had met during the last few weeks , he had not much inclination to like her. But Johannes obviously loved his sister and was worn down by her woes, so he still found himself asking, “Say, if there's anything I can do to help...”

“You're in no situation to support a wife and kid, so.” Johannes rubbed his temple and smiled. “But thanks for the offer. It means a lot.”

Wife and kid.

Yuuri swallowed. “Shit.” The priest would so cluck his tongue next Sunday.

Johannes sighed. “Yeah. Eleonora said she'd look into taking care of the matter, but... well.”

“Lutheran?” Yuuri suggested.

“Morally firm,” Johannes replied.

“Forgive me for being Catholic, but to me this translates to Lutheran.” Yuuri sighed. “Sorry. Don't know any well-to-do bachelors either, nor am I myself one.”

“I know.” Johannes sighed as well. “Eleonora said there'd might be a chance to get that guy to marry Johanna, but well. Slim chance, considering the costs of a lawyer for this sort of thing. Eleonora proposes getting Johanna married or find her an angel maker. She prefers the marriage, just for survival chances.”

“I see.” Yuuri sighed. “I wish I could help...”

“I know. Thanks.” Johannes reached out to grab his hand and pressed it, tightly. “It... it really means a lot that you want to help, really. But you can't and you trying would help no one, in the end, so better leave it, I guess.”

“Sorry.”

The stage hands rolled the props and backgrounds for the twentieth scene, a dark, vault-like scene in the belly of a pyramid. 

“I know.” Johannes nodded. 

And then it was time for them to go back out an on the stage and sing and sing and sing.

 

The performance went by in a whirlwind. After Sara Crispino's Queen of the Night and Thomas Bähret's Moor had been defeated, banished into the deepest, darkest night, light,  and  enlightenment and wisdom had triumphed , they had all come back out on stage, taken their bows and received their applause and cheers.

Then the curtain fell again and with it the last bit of tension that had run through all of them throughout the performance.

La Crispino sighed deeply and then happily embraced a redhead who had played one of the Three Ladies.

Several other soloists just plopped down  on to the floor, sitting there in the usual post-performance-relief stupor before getting up and ushering themselves to their dressing rooms. It wasn't over yet. The star singers, the prima ballerina and some of the more prominent group dancers were expected to show their faces at the after-show gala, to mingle with the wealthier parts of their audience, entertain patrons and maybe find new ones. Others, like Johannes, were not implicitly expected by the directors and the management to show up, but would do so regardless, if their patrons happened to be in the audience. These parties were a good way to garner financial support and maybe portray themselves as in demand and a potential draw for future, wealthy audiences. 

Yuuri always had felt supremely uncomfortable at galas, no matter how often Celestino had dragged him to these. This discomfort had meant that he never had caught the attention of some wealthy merchant or politician; but then again this had made it easier for him to leave Milan.

The chorus singers chattered and laughed while changing out of their costumes and scrubbed the powder from their faces.

“Oi, you up for dinner?!” Thomas called. 

Several calls of agreement were heard, someone sighed “Nah, sorry, broke” and was met with a few offers of treating him. 

“Johannes, you're busy tonight, right?” Thomas continued, nodding to the good evening suit Johannes was currently peeling himself into, nodding. “Yuuri?”

Yuuri shook his head. “No, not today.”

“Hey, I still owe you for the beer last week, I can pay your dinner,” Andreas called.

“No, no, really...”

Johannes came to his rescue. “He's occupied!” he called. “Got a love letter, so leave him to his  fun, will you?”

Well, he had attempted a rescue, even though the rising cheers and whistles made Yuuri wish he hadn't.

“Tell us about it later, will you!”

Yuuri hurried to finish dressing and get out.

He passed several dressing rooms, some with doors leaned open and he could catch glimpses of their occupants in what he decided to refer to as “intense conversation” with visitors. 

Plisetsky was just leaving his own, looking even more put out and annoyed than usual.

“Have a fun evening,” Yuuri sighed and was rewarded with a nasty look that quickly mellowed into a sardonic smile. “Yeah, with any luck Yakov will be distracted for a few seconds and I get to kill some of these dust heads.”

Charming as ever.

“And you be ready for practise tomorrow.”

When was he ever not, Yuuri wondered, before wandering back into the belly of the backstage area, snatching a candle and a half-empty box of matches from a tool shelf, pocketing them as he went.

The note had spoken of a small room above the stage, to the left. The easiest way to go there would be through the corridor that led to the boxes of their regular patrons, but that would have also meant risking to run into someone and being either asked about his designation or at worst being dragged down to the party, both prospects Yuuri didn't fancy at all.

Behind the stage there was still the usual clean up bustle, but this also meant that the stage hands were all too busy to pay attention to a performer wandering around here, as long as he didn't get in the way.

He could climb the ladders and balance over the long, slim bridges and platforms with practised ease that tended to betray those performers who had grown up inside a theatre, waiting, pressed to the rails, when someone passed by.

Occasionally one of the stage hands grumbled something as they passed him, shooting him looks. He didn't quite belong here, this part of the theatre was not his world. He should leave.

Yuuri went on.

And finally, he had made his way to the attic, looking around. Pitch black, but well, that's what he had grabbed candle and matches for .

With a hiss, the match flared up as he struck it, filling the air with the sharp, biting smell of burning phosphor and sulphur. Carefully, he lit the candle and then blew the match out, shaking it until the last glimmer had died and only a thin plume of smoke was still rising. Holding the candle up, he went on. 

Nobody to see as he reached the small corridor to the left of the stage, slipping in and then pausing.

There was the door.

Yuuri swallowed, fingering for the note. Here he was and nobody was to see and there was the door, looking both inconspicuous and threatening in the small circle of light he was spreading around himself.

He came closer. Behind the door, there was silence.

His throat felt tight, as if he was choking on what he wanted to say , and it took him several breaths before he finally could speak up. “Hello? Anyone there?”

No answer.

“So, performance is over, I'm here, where are you then?”

Again, no answer.

“Is there anyone at all?”

Again, no answer. Yuuri sighed  almost  silently. Figured. He had been made fun of after all.

To his own annoyance he found that he was actually disappointed. It would have been nice if his prankster had at least the decency to face him. The fact that Plisetsky was either in on this joke or had been fooled as well was disheartening. Most annoying though, Yuuri found, was the realization that he had, against reason, begun to hope the notes were sincere.

“Fine. You had your fun, I'm leaving. Have a nice evening!” With this he turned, ready to leave. Maybe he could still catch up with the others and have a reasonably pleasant evening after all.

“I am here. Please don’t go!”

Yuuri paused and then turned back around, quickly enough for the candle flame to flicker. “Yes?”

The door remained closed. 

“I am sorry that you think of this as a prank, “ the voice said.

Male, Yuuri mused, heavy with an accent that he knew just as heavy from Mr Feltsman and as  filled with  the suggestion of a lilt from Yuri Plisetsky. A well-balanced, full baritone too.

“Who are you? I haven’t met you before – do you work here?” He was talking to a door, Yuuri realized, and thus he added: “Would you come out?”

Silence.

“Or… maybe I come in.”

Again, silence. 

“Or we can stay like this, Each on their side of the door. I mean, that is fine too…”

Another heartbeat of nothing.

Then, with a soft click the door handle lowered itself and the door swung open.

“Please,” the voice said, “Come in.”

Yuuri did as he was told.

The little attic room was lit by two candle sticks and a lamp and in the little light he could make out the schemes of a table and and two armchairs. Even like this , the poor things looked like they would fall apart the very next moment. On the far side of the room, leaning against a small window, stood a man, tall and with what looked like rather broad shoulders and a slender waist. His face was hidden in the shadows, but even in this dim light Yuuri could see that he had very fair hair, shimmering almost silvery.

“Would you close the door?” he asked, a smile in his voice.

Yuuri did so. “Who are you?” he then asked, slowly coming closer, stopping when he reached the armchairs.

“Viktor. It's nice to finally talk to you.”

“Well, it's nice to not be pranked,” Yuuri replied. “Do you work at the theatre?”

“Sort of. I help out Yakov sometimes and I deal with most of Yuri when he is being a brat again.” The man called Viktor chuckled. It blurred the lines of his vocals even more and Yuuri had to strain his ears, not to mention the rest of his head, to understand what he was saying.

God, he hated the German language at times.

“And,” he said, speaking in very slow, clear Italian and oh, how light his tongue felt all of a sudden, “and what do you want from me?”

Viktor tilted his head. “I like you sing,” he then answered, his Italian halting and as well loaded with a heavy accent, but far easier to understand for Yuuri than German. “Your singing,” he corrected himself. “You sound beautiful.”

Yuuri turned his eyes to the frayed, frazzled cushioning of the armchair. “You've been eavesdropping.”

Viktor laughed, short and smooth and clear, the sound of pearls rolling from their chain. “Yes. I know, I should not,” he then continued in slow, heavily accented Italian. “It has become a habit to listen to chorus practise.” He paused. “Would you rather I stopped?”

Yuuri pondered the proposition. He had never seen this man before (or rather, heard him. It wasn't like he could see much of him right now.) and the thought of someone secretly listening to him was more than just weird. 

Then again...

“So, Mr Feltsman knows about you?”

“Yes.”

Well at least tat meant Yuuri wasn't hallucinating - which of course, was already proven wrong by the fact that Plisetsky had delivered Viktor's notes to him. 

“And he doesn't mind.”

Viktor shrugged. “If he was seriously opposed he'd find ways to make me stop.”

Sounded reasonable.

“I have not asked before. I should have. I would love to listen to you sometimes, with your permission.” His Italian was still loaded with that thick accent, but his speech was less stilted than at first.

Yuuri tried to peer through the darkness, hoping to catch a glimpse of the other man's face, but to no avail. Finally, he asked, “If I said no, what then?”

Viktor, again, tilted his head. “Well, that would be too bad for me, but I would bow to your wishes.” He didn't sound too happy about the prospect though.

Maybe that was what made Yuuri nod. “Then, may I hear you?”

Again, Viktor tilted his head and Yuuri wondered whether there might be an element of surprise in this movement. “What?”

“You sound like you have received vocal training. And you speak very good Italian. I am sure you can sing very well.”

“Well, yes, I do.” No surprise in his voice, only the faintest hint of pride as he stated the obvious.

Yuuri had to both admire and envy such confidence. “Well then.” Now it was up to him to cock his head. “Something simple, maybe, a folk song?”

Viktor pondered this for a bit. “Something simple? Like  _Greensleeves_ ?”

Yuuri thought about it for a second. “Which language?”

“I would prefer English, if you don't mind. Otherwise I know only a French version and a German one. I don't like the German one and the French I only remember partially.”

“English then.”

Viktor, still leaning on the window, hummed a few notes up and down, before humming a long note. It turned out to be his starting point.

“Alas, my love, you do me wrong, To cast me off discourteously. For I have loved you well and long, Delighting in your company.” He had a full, rich baritone, like honey running through Yuuri, spreading warmth throughout him, despite the mournful subject matter. “Greensleeves was all my joy,” Viktor's voice rose and then moved like in gentle waves until falling, “And who but my lady greensleeves.”

Yuuri listened to the second verse, already humming along and then fell in at the third. “Your vows you've broken, like my heart, Oh, why did you so enrapture me? Now I remain in a world apart, But my heart remains in captivity. Greensleeves was all my joy...” His voice was still smooth and flexible from the performance and he easily found a counterpoint to Viktor, moving easily along with him.

He had forgotten how long that song was. He had even forgotten that once upon a time, he had learned the whole thing, the original English and a slightly bawdier Italian translation that had never failed to make Celestino laugh and the ballet girls blush.

“Greensleeves was my heart of gold,” they went for the last verse, high and high and then lower, “And who but my lady Greensleeves.”

The last note hung between them and Yuuri felt himself shiver a bit. “You...” He cleared his throat. “You do have an amazing voice.”

Viktor chuckled. “So do you. I quite like how we sound together.”

“Yes, it...” Yuuri paused, searching for words describing what it was.

The warmth was still spreading through him, making his limbs light and his head spin. Something in his chest bubbled and threatened to flow over and his face ached with a broad smile.

Even through the darkness, Yuuri could feel Viktor looking at him with an intensity that made him blush.

“So, care to sing for me now?”

Yuuri's heartbeat sped up. “I don't know...”

“Would you like to or not?” Viktor continued, still with this smile in his voice.

Yuuri's still whirling mind came to an abrupt, screeching halt. “I don't know what.”

“You are a professional singer.” In front of the window, Viktor moved in what could be either impatience or disbelief. “How would you not know what to sing?”

“Well...” Yuuri shifted from one leg to another. “Well, I...” He sighed. “What should I sing?”

Again, he felt how Viktor gave him a long, pensive look before he said, “The  _Va pensiero_ . I like how this goes.”

Painfully unrequited love and an intense longing for a long-lost home. In light of this, the evening should have felt a lot less cheerful and far more somber than it did.

Yuuri nodded. “ _Va Pensiero_ , then.”

“You need a starting note?”

He hummed the first few beats of the melody and then shook his head. “No, I think I'm good.” Then he started. “Va, pensiero, sull’ali dorate; va, ti posa sui clivi, sui colli,”

He saw how Viktor shifted and then moved away from the window, stepping closer and for a moment, he could see hints of his face, a long nose and a prominent brow.

“ve olezzano tepide e molli, l’aure dolci del suolo nat-uagh!”

A pair of hands – long-fingered and with a firm grip – landed on his shoulders, pulling him back.

“Stand up,” Viktor said, voice in Yuuri's back. “You tend to hunch forward when singing. Reduces the volume and you strangle the high notes.”

“I... I know.” Yuuri swallowed. “I know.”

“Then why do you do it?” Viktor's hands loosened their grip and gently moved over Yuuri's shoulders.

He straightened his back. “I try not to, but...” He suppressed the urge to shrug.

“Continue, will you?”

Yuuri nodded, hummed the note and then continued with the waves of the second verse. “Del Giordano le rive saluta...” As expected, it even felt different, singing like this, the air filling up his chest more now than before and the notes leaving his throat seemingly with more substance.

It probably also helped that this time he wasn't crying.

At the end of the verse he felt his shoulders sagging forward again and then Viktor's grip tightened again and pulled him up. The high, rising “Arpa d’or dei fatidici vati” came out strong and clear and carrying a strangled cry without being strangled itself,and when he ended on “che ne infonda al patire virtù.” Yuuri blinked, listening after the last notes. 

That had been... different. He knew he could sing well, he was trained to do so and he knew this song so well.

Viktor's voice cut through the daze. “Much better.” He smiled audibly. “You have such a lovely voice, one could almost think you want to keep it all for yourself like this.”

“Oh, no, no...” Yuuri quickly shook his head. "I mean yes... no. Urgh." He sighed. "Sorry."

“It's alright.” Viktor's hands left his shoulders and when Yuuri turned around, he was just stepping back from the light.

“Would you sing again? From _Rienzi_ this time, if you know it?”

“I'm not so firm with Wagner, I fear. Ce- my tutor never liked him. Called him an incompetent, overblown schmuck.”

Viktor chuckled. “No wonder he sent you here, then. Yakov hated dear Richard, but that feeling was mutual. Never saw him happier than in March when he had to leave."

Yuuri raised an eyebrow. "Mr Feltsman can be happy?"

"A bit hard to believe, yes. He was positively giddy for some weeks." Viktor laughed. "So, how about the  _Freude Schöner Götterfunken_ ?”

“The Beethoven variant or that folk song like thing?” 

“We've had one folk song already, so I'd go with Beethoven,” Viktor argued. “You performed Beethoven in Milan, did you?”

Yuuri nodded. “Yes, of course.” This was a chorus piece, usually sung by women; Yuuri had performed it with them until his voice had deepened into the low tenor he had now and he had switched sections. The choir was let into the song by a baritone singer and it had a somewhat difficult start to sing as a solo. “I'll take it from the  _Freude Schöner Götterfunken_ line then?”

“No announcement before?” Viktor sounded almost disappointed.

“Maybe if I learn how to modulate my voice from baritone to tenor and back each in a breath's time,” Yuuri suggested. “Which I will gladly learn once I know it is actually possible.”

Viktor nodded. “If you insist then.”

Yuuri hummed the melody of the  _Deine Zauber binden wieder_ line to find the starting note and then he began. “Freude, schöner Götterfunken,Tochter aus Elysium, Wir betreten feuertrunken, Himmlische, dein Heiligthum!”

Viktor listened, carefully, as he went through it, ending on “Laufet, Brüder, eure Bahn,   
Freudig, wie ein Held zum Siegen.” There was more after this, but considering how Viktor was shifting his weight, Yuuri opted to not sing the “Seid umschlungen, Milionen” verse. 

“What is it?” he asked

“You hunched again,” he commented. “And while you brought the notes out fine – despite the hunch, which is quite a feat, I will readily admit – it is an ode to joy, not to a mild mood of _what a fine day is it_.”

Yuuri nodded. “I'll pay attention to the hunching.”

“And the mood?” Viktor asked again.

“Well...” Mood. True, Yuuri hadn't sounded too jubilant. “I don't know. Might have something to do with my posture.”

“Probably, but that might not be all.” Viktor smiled. “It's getting late though. Do you have rehearsal tomorrow morning?”

Yuuri chuckled. “When has Mr . Feltsman ever let anyone slack off who wasn't having a breakdown?”

“You should go and get some sleep then. And dinner.” Viktor's voice rose about half an octave. “Oh dear, I kept you from dinner!”

“No, no, it's alright.” Yuuri smiled. “I had good lunch today. Not hungry at all.”

“You say so...”

“And I will eat a good breakfast tomorrow.”

Apparently that calmed Viktor down. He nodded. “I'm really sorry.”

“Don't be.” Yuuri bit on his lip. “Can I ask you a favour?”

Viktor tilted his head and he came a small, very small step closer. “Yes? What is it?”

“Since you will listen to me anyway...” Yuuri swallowed. “I think I could greatly benefit from you tutoring me.”

“Oh.” There was a pause.

Yuuri's stomach tightened into a cold, hard knot. “Of course, if not, then...”

“This sounds like a nice idea. Gladly.” He didn't come closer though, or reached out a hand for them to seal the deal. 

Still, something in his voice convinced Yuuri that he had indeed accepted the proposal.

He let out a breath. “Thank you and... oh dear, I think we should talk about payment.”

Against the window, Yuuri saw Viktor shake his head, a soft swish of fair hair in the darkness “Oh no, it's alright. For now, I'll take your progress and the enjoyment of your singing as my payment, if this is agreeable to you.”

For now. What was for now and when would it change, Yuuri wanted to ask.

Instead he nodded. “Yes. It is.”

“Wonderful.” Again, Viktor stepped away from the window and this time, closer to him.

Again, Yuuri could get a hint of his face, this time the heart-shape of a full-lipped mouth.

He stepped close to him, his mouth upturned into a smile. “Good.” Only now and still hidden in shadow, he took Yuuri's hand.

Yuuri flinched at the touch, mostly because Viktor was so utterly, unbelievingly, humanly warm. But after flinching, he found himself holding the hand, its long fingers, its warmness as firmly as he could, hopefully without being too tight in his grip.

“Great,” Viktor declared. “But be warned, I'm a strict teacher.”

This sounded a lot less threatening than Viktor probably had intended and Yuuri chuckled. “I should hope so. Would be pointless otherwise.”

“You should go now, though. Yakov will have your head if you're too tired to sing properly tomorrow. And if he finds out that I kept you up he'll have mine as well.”

“Alright then. When shall I come back?”

“I am always up here at performances, listening. Good sound, but I am out of the way and out of sight.”

Why, Yuuri wanted to ask, why was he trying to stay hidden, but this was probably not appropriate for this first meeting.

“And when we have rehearsals?”

Viktor laughed softly. “Usually somewhere close to the stage. I'm free to come and go as I please, as long as I don't get in the way.”

Yuuri noticed that he was still holding Viktor's hand and finally pulled gently away. “Then you'll see me tomorrow?”

“Yes. When is your next performance?”

Yuuri thought about it for a bit. “Day after tomorrow and then the day after that.”

“Good, then we'll have your first lesson on one of these days.”

This was a clear, albeit gentle, dismissal and Yuuri turned around heading for the door.

“Thank you for coming,” Viktor said, as he opened the door.

Yuuri smiled. “Thank you for not being a prank ster .” With that he slipped through the door and made his way through the dark corridors and stairways and bridges downwards and then, through the bowels of the theatre to the exit.

Dresden was bustling with nightlife, loud and bright and cheerful, people passing him, laughing, talking – and it was all far away. 

Yuuri was all by himself, in himself, in silence and solitude and in peace.

 

He got up early the next morning, sitting down for breakfast – he had promised, after all, to eat properly and it was a nice chance to catch up with Georgi, who was happily chatting about his dear Maria as they ate and then headed out. 

“Why did Mr. Wagner have to leave so suddenly?” he asked, voicing out loud the first thing that came into his mind after Georgi had stopped extolling lovely Maria's many virtues, “I mean, Celestino originally wanted me to go to Hamburg or Berlin and only started looking at Dresden after Wagner left.”

“Not a big fan, your mentor, eh?” They waited for a horse cart to pass before crossing the street.

“Ask him about Wagner and he'll start an aria about how much he hates overblown puffballs, is all I'm saying,” Yuuri answered. “But the moment Wagner was away, he insisted on me going to Dresden. Mr Feltsman is more to his tastes, I guess.”

“He sounds nice,” Georgi commented. “There were some uprisings a few months ago. Dresden wasn't the only place for stuff to happen, though, and it was beaten down quickly.”

“Yeah, we heard about it in Milan. Without this I would have left there earlier, but well.” Yuuri shrugged. “I kind of like reaching my destination without getting into trouble.”

Georgi laughed. “Who doesn't? Well, Wagner apparently thought that only because he called himself a genius and whatnot he was free to do as he liked and got himself involved in this and when the trouble had calmed down he wasn't firm enough in his trouble-making beliefs to stick it out and stay. Off he went and Yakov danced and you came here.” He slapped Yuuri on the back. “Good deal, if you ask me.”

Yuuri smiled. "That's good to hear. Thanks."

They headed off to different directions inside the theatre, Georgi to fetch his music folio, Yuuri to the stage where the first few of the chorus were already congregating and warming up.

“Morning!”

“Morning,” someone replied and the immediately went on, “how was the performance?”

“I was only frozen up for half of it, so I guess it was alright.”

This was met with good-natured laughter and from Thomas, who just came in with , “Don't believe him, he was good!”

“Love letters do bolster up one's confidence,” Johannes laughed as he was coming in. “The rest of the evening was equally successful, I take it?” He gave Yuuri a quick once-over. “You don't seem frustrated.”

“Yes, I had a nice evening,” Yuuri confirmed, ears growing warm. Was Viktor already here, hearing this? Yuuri prayed that he was not. “How are things with your sister?” he instead asked quietly.

Johannes sighed. “Not good. Eleonora is thinking about how to help her out, but Johanna herself is pretty... she's not taking it well. That bastard had promised to marry her, otherwise she would  have  never...” Again he sighed. “Why does stuff live this only happen to good girls like her?”

“Good people are easier to fool, I guess,” Yuuri sighed. “If you're good you think others are good too and don't suspect otherwise.”

“And what would that knowledge make you?”

Yuuri shrugged. “I'm trying not to be a bad person. No idea how successful I am , though. There really no chance to get him to marry her?”

“Slim. Only if we'd make a big deal of it and even then...” Johannes rubbed his temple. “And Johanna already said she doesn't want a marriage that's created by a lawsuit.”

“Smart girl.” Yuuri nodded, as he noted Georgi coming up and sitting down at the piano. “And if she could place the child with someone?”

“That's one option, yes. If we don't get her married in time...” Johannes looked up. “Can we talk about something else, please? Was your evening good?”

Yuuri smiled. “Really good, yes.”

“So you'll see her again?”

“Yes.” It was probably for the best to not detail the actual nature of last nights meeting, Yuuri decided. “Pretty soon, even.”

“Great...” Johannes nodded as if to empathize how great this indeed was. “Good for you. You can do with a bit more of a social life.”

How very nice.

Yuuri sighed and nodded to some other incoming chorus singers in greeting. “Let's warm up, alright? Mr . Feltsman will be here soon.”

“Tell me about her sometime.” But thankfully, after this Johannes indeed concentrated on singing himself warm. It was too early in the morning for Yuuri to make up a believable sweetheart.

Mr . Feltsman came in. “Yesterday I almost fell asleep listening to you Lot! You can do better than this! First chorus! Now!” he bellowed and they ushered to get into position. 

“Georgi, from _Es lebe Sarastro_ on!”

“Yessir!” Georgi started to hammer on the keys and they started singing. “Es lebe Sarastro! Sarastro soll leben! Er ist es, dem wir uns mit Freuden ergeben! Stets mög er des Lebens als Weiser sich freun! Er ist unser Abgott, dem alle sich weihn.“

“Ah, so you are awake _now_!”, Mr Feltsman snapped. “Good, maybe the theatre should set up a coffee fund for you before performances! Again!”

They sang again and then through the other chorus pieces of the  _Magic Flute_ .

Mr Feltsman was in high spirits today, throwing biting, un-mean remarks left and right, occasionally even committing to something that might actually constitute as a praise, usually in the form of “Ha, I  _knew_ it, now why won't you work like that on stage?!”

After the  _Magic Flute_ they went through the  _Wildschütz_ , continuing in the same fashion.

It was  a  delight.

Yuuri sang through his parts with the usual ease he had during rehearsal and that he tended to lack during performance , and his chest was wide and open and light. Also, he noticed afterwards, he had made an effort not to hunch.

They broke up formation when the soloists showed up, being dismissed with a gruff “Now would you mind performing like that for an audience?!” 

It was as close to a praise they would probably get in the next twenty to fifty years.

Having bestowed his favourable opinion on them , Mr . Feltsman turned his attention to the solo singers. “Gerhard, care to explain why Papageno was apparently fancying Tamino yesterday? Your reaction to Luise's Papagena was about as passionate as mine is to the current bread price in comparison or was it the other way around?”

Gerhard Bohrheim, the baritone who played the bird catcher , shrugged and crossed his arms defensively in front of his broad chest. “Didn't notice, sorry. Will pay attention to it.” It didn't sound quite as nonchalant as he had probably intended to and the dark look he threw to last night's Papagena, Luise Obermeyer, told a different story. But that was very much not Yuuri's business and he had no intention of changing that.

“Please _d_ o work on it,” Plisetsky sighed. “I do not think the critics would approve of a staging where Papageno tries to seduce Tamino away from his heroic mission of being easily swayed – no, wait, that's not much of a difference, Papageno tries to seduce him away from anything good and decent and morally upright.”

“Would be fun to stage though,” the Crispino argued with a pearly laughter. “And fun to write for whoever would take over that!“

“Yes, and the theatre and our collective careers would pay dearly for that bit of fun, so don't have it,” Mr. Feltsman declared. “Stage is no place for fun, we've been through that. Have fun off-stage. And clean up after you had fun!”

These was a general round of snickering among the chorus as they dissolved and the soloists took over.

Plisetsky interrupted his daily display of grumpiness to arch an eyebrow at Yuuri and Yuuri smiled in reply and nodded ever so slightly.

The boy sighed, rolled his eyes and then nodded in return before turning his attention towards Mr . Feltsman.

Yuuri still doubted that he had heard the last of this whole notes-delivering-affair from the kid, but that was strangely alright with him. A lot of things were strangely alright with him today.

And if there was a soft rustle and fainting steps somewhere nearby disappearing in the dark, that was more than alright .

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, thanks for dropping in again and for reading!
> 
> I swear to ... whatever: every second annotation my dear Elli put in this chapter consisted of "Gaaaaaaayyyyyyy". I take it for the praise that it undoubtedly is.
> 
> Also, I hate Wagner with a passion rivaling my hate for sparkly vampires, which hopefully will not impede my realistic, true-to-life portrayal of the man, filtered through the lenses of the characters who met him.  
> (But seriously. Richard Wagner was a class a a-hole and I bet Yakov wasn't the only one in Dresden who was relieved when he ditched town. That said, if you're interested in why he's a class a a-hole, just ask and be prepared for a loooooooooong rant. :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Proper lessons ensue and Yuri insists on NO DRAMA PLEASE.

**Chapter 05**

 

Rehearsal the next day practically flew by, consisting mostly of the upcoming _Wildschütz._ In only a few days, sing-throughs for the whole ensemble would begin, before they'd level it up to full-on dress rehearsals.

“Alright, we need to celebrate tonight, no excuses!” Thomas declared as they left the stage for their free hours before performance.

“Not me, sorry!” Johannes quickly called, “Got an engagement already.”

“Not fair – Yuuri, you come, though, right? You missed out the day before yesterday, you have to come tonight! I still owe you, remember!”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow. Thomas was nice enough, yes, but it was in moments like these Yuuri regretted the moment of good resolutions that had made him socialise with Thomas in the first place. Socialising in this case had consisted of a short, friendly “Hello, how are you?” and going along with the other chorus singers for dinner after their performance a few times.

“You're not going to give me any choice in this, right?” he asked dryly. “Or ask whether I have other plans, right?”

“Your sweetheart, you mean?” Thomas shrugged. “Eh, if she gets clingy after one evening together you'll thank me for dragging you away from her.”

“Fine.” Yuuri smiled. He had said that he'd come either today or tomorrow, after all.

The other singers left while he stayed behind. Viktor had said that he listened to rehearsals, so he probably was still around. Which also meant that he probably had listened to that exchange, but still, Yuuri just wanted to make sure he knew not to wait for him today.

Behind the stage, things went silent.

On the stage, the Baron and the Count were cheerfully discussing the Baron's wedding to the baroness.

“Viktor?” Yuuri asked softly, “Are you here?”

There was a soft rustle and an almost silent fall of steps, nothing more.

“Just... I don't know whether you've heard it, but it seems I won't come up to you tonight.”

No reply.

“I'll be there tomorrow, so wait for me, yes?”

The steps retreated and Yuuri was left alone, feeling slightly stupid for talking to thin air.

“Oh dear, no.”

Yuuri turned around and found Plisetsky standing behind him, brow furrowed.

“Please tell me you didn't catch The Drama from him. Please tell me.”

Yuuri shrugged. “No idea what you're talking about.”

“He hides in the shadows dramatically. You talk to the shadows dramatically. No. Please no. No. We've got more than enough drama here without any performance going on!”

Probably, Yuri Plisetsky was one of the big providers of the drama, but Yuuri wisely did not comment on this.

He nodded. “I will keep the contagion with Drama to a minimum, if it eases your mind.”

“Oh hallelujah.” Plisetsky sighed. Then there was silence and then he continued, “Well, if he gets to much... like...”

Was the boy trying to offer Yuuri help here, looking at the floor, ushering his foot around, not quite knowing what to do with his hands?

It was almost endearing, so of course Plisetsky had to shift the picture by grumbling, “Also, Viktor will not regret trusting you or I'll make you regret it.”

This, on the other hand, would have been a bit more threatening if Plisetsky hadn't been just seventeen and slender and slight as a girl. As things were, Plisetsky had made some valiant attempts that Yuuri could acknowledge as such, no matter how short they fell.

“Understood.” He nodded. “You should go back to practise.”

Plisetsky shrugged. “Not like I am singing in this mess, but alright. See you later.”

With a short wave Yuuri walked out and away.

He spent his free time wandering through Dresden, spotting Johannes on his way to luncheon with a lady that was most certainly not Mrs. Eleonora (too small, too blonde, too bright in her choice of colours) but looked equally wealthy and equally willing to support The Arts and artistic performers.

It most definitely was the wisest not to disturb him.

Yuuri himself wandered through the city, looking at the displays in the shop windows, musing and then making some mental notes for what he would need to buy tomorrow – he direly needed needles and thread to mend his socks and maybe a spare pair of trousers would not hurt either. His soap was about to run out in the next two weeks or so as well and his razor needed a whetting. Lots and lots of things to spend money on, thank goodness tomorrow was Friday and Friday was the weekly payday. Maybe the theatre management hoped for them to give most of their earnings away at church on the next Sunday.

Not to mention that a butcher offered buns and slices of bread thickly buttered and filled with cuts of cold roast meats, pickled cucumbers and thinly sliced onion rings. Another thing he gladly took note of, but for today he preferred a small jug of soup a street vendor sold from what looked like a field kitchen. It was cutting short on the meat and the vegetables were of doubtful freshness, but it was filling and it tasted of more than water.

At four he went back to the theatre, where preparations for the evening show were running under steam and nobody paid attention to him as he shuffled through the corridors.

“I will listen,” Viktor's voice whispered in Yuuri's back, but when he turned around, nobody was there.

Yuuri's throat was dry when he replied, “I... I do hope so.”

Viktor's voice chuckled. “Glad to hear that. Would you come a little closer?”

Slowly Yuuri's came forward until Viktor said, “That's enough. Would you turn around now?”

Again, Yuuri obeyed and then waited.

The firm grip on his shoulders wasn't much of a surprise and Yuuri let out a soft breath as Viktor slowly pulled back his shoulders. “No hunching.”

“No hunching,” Yuuri promised, feeling warmth seeping from Viktor's fingers through his clothes. “Thank you.”

“Have fun out there,” Viktor whispered.

Steps came closer and with them, laughing and chatting voices.

The touch was gone in an instant and Yuuri was alone again.

He didn't even hear steps that would have spoken of Viktor leaving.

“Oi, Yuuri's already here!” Thomas waved and Yuuri took a deep breath, reminding himself to be nice. Ihelped that he discovered Johannes among those coming in. Thomas couldn't know he was interrupting something that had actually felt really good and warm and helpful and calming. And Viktor would have left soon anyway, so it really was no big deal.

He smiled. “Ah, you're late. Bet Mr. Feltsman will start looking for us soon if we don't get ready.”

Johannes nodded and then took a close look at Yuuri. “You're kind of pale. Are you alright? Have you seen a ghost or something?”

“Or something,” Yuuri mumbled.

“If it's our house ghost, give it my regards,” Alexander grumbled, ruddy face frowning. “I want my socks back.”

“Then how about not losing them?” Thomas suggested, eyes wide.

“I didn't, someone took them!”

“Your stinky socks. Sure.”

“They were new!”

Yuuri and Johannes exchanged a look.

“You're the one with a sibling, so tell me, is it always like that?”

“You mean the squabbling?” Johannes shrugged. “No idea, I have no brothers. And Johanna was always pretty agreeable. You grew up alone then?”

“Yeah, Cel- Maestro Cialdini never married. Never had the time, I suppose.”

The rest of their group wandered in and they headed to the changing room, dressed and powdered their faces, all the while warming up.

Then off to the backstage area they went where Mr. Feltsman awaited them, glowering and daring them to give a decent performance.

A last warm up and then then it began and they came out on stage on their cue.

Yuuri was light, so, so light, his chest was wide, blood rushed through his veins - and his voice rose and mingled with the others and he still could hear it. And why not?

Viktor had been able to hear out his voice, apparently. There was no reason for Yuuri to not hear himself.

Maybe he just had never paid attention.

But now he did and his blood rushed through him from it, singing as loud and clear as he did.

The stage lights were blinding, the orchestra deafening and still everything was close and distant.

Dazed and highly alert he went through the performance and equally dazed he heard the final round of applause and saw the curtains fall.

“That went well,” Johannes commented next to him. “Mr. Feltsman was nodding a few times.”

Yuuri blinked at Johannes’ blurred face and then slowly started pawing for his glasses. He found them and as he put them on, both his vision and mind cleared.

“Let’s just hope it wasn't him nodding off,” he laughed.

“Only if he fell deaf. He’ll probably bitch about Papageno suddenly being interested in Pamina tomorrow, though instead of his Papagena. If this goes on the bird catcher will have fluttered and flitted from Sarastro to Monstrato and the Queen of the Night as well and his mate still wont have had been spared even a glance,” Andreas sighed. “What a tragedy.”

“The Crispino will gladly write a libretto for this if you let her,” Thomas laughed as they headed for the changing room.

The soloists were still chatting among each other, but Sara Crispino, arm in arm with the redheaded singer of one of the Three Ladies, looked up and waved in greeting to them, smiling.

“And if she heard that, you've just given her ideas she will now talk about until Mr. Feltsman wants to rip off his ears,” Alexander sighed. “Alright, let’s finish up, I’m starving! Yuuri, you're still with us tonight?”

“Yep!”

Spirits were high as usual after a performance had gone well. Tunes were hummed and picked up before being abandoned.

Johannes bid them a good night and left just as a melody was taking hold.

When they left the theatre, the drinking sonn of Kaspar from the Freischütz was in full swing.

“Eins ist eins, und drei sind drei! Drum addiert noch zweierlei zu dem Saft der Reben; Kartenspiel und Würfellust und ein Kind mit runder Brust hilft zum ew'gen Leben!”

It got them attention as they sauntered through the streets, and rightfully so. The Kaspar was a bass role and they were collectively as bass as Yuri Plisetsky was sweet and charming. Nonetheless they sung it through with as much harmony as with gusto. Under loud “Fläschchen sei mein Abc, Würfel, Karte, Katherle, Meine Bilderfibel!” they finally reached their inn and swung open the door.

Laughing they stumbled in and a barmaid looked up. Yuuri saw her eyes flit about as she recognized them and then counted heads before grabbing quite a few empty jugs.

It was a busy day and they had trouble getting to their table without running into someone, but they managed and a while later were sitting over beer and an assortment of potato dishes, as usual. Steamed with custard or cream-pickled cod, fried with bacon and eggs or baked in the oven, all in the process of being devoured by fifteen hungry men.

“You know,” Andreas said between two bites, “potatoes are severely underrated.”

Around the table, glances were exchanged before honing in on Andreas.

“I mean, look at them, potatoes are delicious, they're filling and they unite rich and poor, they are the most democratic vegetable we can imagine here and look how different you can serve them!” He made a large gesture, encompassing the whole table.

Alexander rolled his eyes. “Andreas, drink. Drink, please! Just drink, you're weird when you're sober!”

Yuuri dipped a piece of potato into the creamy marinade of his cod and popped it in his mouth, mainly so nobody could ask him for his opinion. Alex was right. Andreas’ mind tended to wander in directions that were only bearable when he – and everyone around him – were drunk as owls. Didn't mean Andreas didn't have a point about potatoes, though.

Andreas raised his jug. “To the potato, everyone!”

And this in turn did very much not mean that Yuuri had to go along with it.

Along the table glances were first exchanged and they were pointedly directed to Andreas, all the while not a single jug was lifted.

Andreas cleared his throat. “Or not.” With that, he took a deep sip.

Thomas did the same, before digging into his fried potatoes. “What's up with Johannes, anyways?” he asked between bites. “I mean, he hasn't been out with us for weeks!”

“He's being attentive to his patron,” Yuuri answered.

Alexander shrugged. “What do you want? She'll support him if he pays attention to her and from what I've seen, she's pretty good looking.”

“And widowed,” Thomas chimed in, taking another big gulp from his beer.

Alexander rolled his eyes at his brother. “And that. And you wonder he prefers her company to us?”

“I knew it,” Andreas sighed. “Women. Women are the death of every good camaraderie!” He slammed his jug on the table. “Yuuri!”

Yuuri, still preoccupied with his potatoes and cod, looked up. “Huh? Yeah?”

“You! You're not like that, right? You won't betray us!”

"What?” Yuuri blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“No abandoning your mates for a girl, you hear me?!”

Yuuri evaluated his life for a moment. No, no girl worth abandoning anything for in his past. Which had never ceased to amuse Celestino.

“Yeah, right!” Thomas chimed in. “Don't think you can ditch us now just because you got yourself a girl!”

Yuuri decided that a dramatic sigh was in order. “Aw, that's too bad. There go any chances I might have had of ever getting married.”

There was a moment of silence, all eyes glued on Yuuri in something akin to horror.

He felt his mouth twitch into a smile, giving him away.

Thomas laughed. “You almost got me there.”

“And here I thought you were nice and all.” Alexander shook his head. “And what did we get instead?”

“Someone who talks to the house ghost to freak us out,” Thomas continued.

“Yeah, caught me red-handed, I'm on intimate terms with the resident undead.” Yuuri waved his hand. “Or not, he still hasn't told me how he became the house ghost.” With that, he finally took the first sip of his beer. No, he would never understand the affinity the Germans had for the stuff.

“Suicide, they say. One of the soloists, a few years back,” Thomas said. “Andreas was at the theatre back then, me and Alex only know some rumours.”

Something in Yuuri's stomach grew cold. “Oh. Suicide.” That sounded horrible. He made a cross without even thinking about it.

Andreas shrugged. “I was still new back then so I don't know much either. Was some sort of scandal. One of the soloists left Dresden in the middle of the night and the other...” He shrugged. “Apparently Mr. Wagner said something to him and that was the last straw. We came in for rehearsal and he was yelling. Next day Mr. Feltsman comes in, really calm, and informs us that Nikiforov is dead. There was no funeral, not even a service or mass, so he probably killed himself." He shrugged. "Pity. Amazing voice and he could deal with Plisetsky. Even though he was...” He paused for a second, looking for the proper word, “well, he was a bit… inverted, rumour says.”

There was some mumbling along the table that sounded like agreement.

Yuuri sighed. “Why do I get the feeling that I am lucky that Wagner was gone when I showed up?”

“Because you are,” Alexander declared. “He would have hated you. He hated the Crispino.”

“And Mr. Feltsman. And Nikiforov and Plisetsky,” Thomas added. “And basically anyone who wasn't him, but...”

“Yeah, it's quite an achievement to hate the Crispino, I mean...” Alexander shrugged. “For that matter, he also managed that she hated him. Neither of those are things I'd consider worth being proud of.”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “The Crispino can hate someone?”

“Incredible, right?” Andreas asked, waving to the barmaid for another beer. “She was never unfriendly, of course, I mean, we're talking about the Crispino here. But it was funny how she had a certain smile for him.”

“A special smile,” Thomas interjected.

“Very special,” Alexander added. “I was always afraid she'd rip his throat out with her bare teeth. It was creepy. Ask her about Wagner and you'll see.”

Yuuri made a mental note to do so if he ever felt a death wish coming up on him.

They didn't stay much longer than it took to finish dinner and two beers each and then to pay. Rehearsal the next day would start early and Mr. Feltsman would most definitely not let them slack off.

Yuuri parted ways with Thomas and Alexander at the crossing to the Bundschuhstraße and walked the last bit in blessed silence. It was nice to spend an evening with them, talking and laughing, but there was always a point when it was enough and then it quickly became too much. That point had been close and Yuuri was relieved that he was alone before he reached it, especially considering the thankfully very short-lasting turn their conversation had taken when they had spoken of Nikiforov.

As it was now, he could go home, could go to bed and then tomorrow get up early and have a decent breakfast before yet another long day would start.

Tomorrow, there would be another performance.

And tomorrow – a thought that made him almost ridiculously happy – he would meet up with Viktor again.

 

The day began less than promising. The last week of May had started with sunshine and heat, but this morning seemed to have forgotten all about that. The air was chilly and damp, heavy with oncoming rain, carried by thick, dust-dirty clouds.

It was one of those mornings that made Yuuri thank God – and the Holy Virgin, just for good measure – for the invention of hot tea and he saved his mug to the very last moment before he finally, ultimately had to head out and leave, braving the day, despite the disgusting spray that started to drizzle down on him.

He ushered himself inside and to the stage. “Morning!”

Today they would start rehearsing the _Wildschütz_ in full, so Yuuri wasn't surprised to see both the Crispino and Mila Babitsch - playing the Gretchen - here.

Just as unsurprising was how awake they were. Babitsch was brimming with excitement at her first major solo role, chatting animatedly with the Crispino and Johannes Erhardt.

Yuuri himself suppressed a yawn.

The Crispino laughed. “Long night?”

“Not really.” Yuuri slipped into Italian almost on instinct. The words rolled over his tongue smooth and soft like pearls. "I don't like this sort of weather, that's all. Too...”

“November?”

“Yes,” he nodded after a bit of consideration, “yes, that's about it.”

She sighed. “Yes, I know. It gets a bit better after a few years. I don't feel like I'm about to catch pneumonia any more. That's something.”

Some more people sauntered in, greetings were exchanged and  the first few of them started with their warm up, singing harmonies up and down, blowing raspberries and breathing out in sharp hisses and puffs while the ballet dancers waltzed in. Yuuri, singing a three-tone harmony up and down, discovered Georgi's ladylove among them, looking stony and slightly grumpy, like the rest of them.

Mr. Feltsman came in shortly after, took a look at them and nodded. “Good, we can start right away. Act one. You got your stuff memorized? Yes? Oh, sweet, I almost feel like I'm working with professional performers.”

They positioned themselves, the chorus singers staying in the back, and as the piano started playing they performed some simple country dance steps. The ballet dancers in the front row performed the same steps with a bit more complexity and a good deal more artistic flourish, leaving it to the chorus to sing. “So munter und fröhlich wie heute, Beim Tanze, beim Weine, So möchten wir, ihr lieben Leute, Recht oft uns des Lebens freun." While they sang they parted in the middle, making room for Johannes Erhardt and Mila Babitsch who tried attempted something resembling a waltz.

Mr. Feltsman massaged his brow,but he didn't say anything, so they continued.

“Herr Baculus, er soll leben, Denn er hat dies Fest uns gegeben, Und möge sein Ehestand eben - So heiter und fröhlich sein.”

The Gretchen and the Baculus happily thanked their guests for their good wishes and voiced their optimism about their marriage. Which was immediately followed by them both commenting how the loveable, somewhat elderly groom would be even more lovable if he was a bit less elderly.

The Babitch was a good cast for the role, her soprano clear and technically schooled, but still not yet fully formed, lending an innocence and naiveté to it that was befitting of a young country girl, mixed with a healthy dose of youthful coquettishness.

A gentle lover's spat developed, gleefully commented on by the chorus. “Seht doch den verliebten Streit! Hahahahahahahahahahahaha! - So munter und fröhlich wie heute, Beim Tanzen, beim Weine, So möchten wir, ihr lieben Leute, Recht oft uns des Lebens freun.”

They went through the scene, right until the scene when another chorus singer, playing one of the Count's hunters, would step forward and give Baculus a truly awful letter.

Mr. Feltsman sighed. “I can live with the singing.” This constituted as a praise and it made them all smile.

“However,” he continued, as positively growling as the Babitch was glowing, “the dancing! You all! I talk with the head of ballet to work with you! We'll re-work the schedules to fit in this, ugh! I knew I should have gotten to the dance part of this earlier – Johannes, you're happy to be with someone so gorgeous as the Gretchen, show it! Mila, you're happy to have found a decent, decently-situated husband you actually like! You both! Show it! You appreciate each other! Why don't I see more appreciation?! Again! Start over!”

They did and then again, before Mr. Feltsman was even close to be satisfied. “You'll all practise on your dancing! I have talk with Madame Barnosk about adjusting lessons with you!” He went on for a little longer before gesturing to them to move on to the next scene.

So, apparently their singing in itself was fine and the only problem was the dancing. Which hopefully would be quickly resolved.

They went through the second scene without too much trouble, maybe because a lot of it was Gretchen and Baculus in discussion and disclosure and arguments. No dancing.

Mr. Feltsman nodded something like approval and said nothing, so the quarrel of the soon-to-be married couple was a good performance.

The second scene ended.

They sang through the whole thing with Mr. Feltsman only occasionally shooting a sardonic comment to them. In their short breaks he went around, talking in a low voice to one or the other of them.

Yuuri heard him tell Johannes, “When on stage, mind is on stage. You’re better than this. Show me you are.“

He left Yuuri alone for most of the time; only very late in the performance, after they had finished the “Unser Herr lebe hoch! Er ist so brav, er ist so gut, Unser Herr lebe hoch!” and the according scene he went up to him.

“No freezing up?” he asked, looking him up and down.

Yuuri swallowed. “Not so far.”

“Good. Will happen again?”

“I hope not.”

Mr. Feltsman nodded, seemingly content with this. “Good then. Sing on.” He went on and talked to a few more singers before their little break ended and they went back to work and Mr. Feltsman back down to his seat.

“I will talk about dance to Madame Barnosk. You will hear about it tomorrow. We done for today!”

There was a general mood of relief going around.

“That went extremely well!”, La Crispino chirped, clapping her hands and then hugging the Babitsch. “Your singing is wonderful, dear!”

The Babitch turned as red as her hair. “Thank you...”

“Your singing might be acceptable!” Mr. Feltsman yelled towards them, “but what are you, a woman or a sheep! You need to dance! Dance! Proper dance, you gonna need it!”

The Babitsch sighed and then let out a soft “Baaah”, before she and La Crispino headed off, softly talking and laughing.

“You! Break for you until tonight!” Mr. Feltsman made a shooing gesture and they hurried off-stage.

“What're your plans for tonight?” Thomas asked, once they were off and on their way out.

“No dinner with you, I am engaged!” Yuuri quickly answered and reaped laughter for that.

Johannes slapped his back. “Then have fun. Told you you could do with some more socialising.”

“Yeah, yeah, but don't you dare spending only time with your girl! Johannes?”

“Yeah, alright!”

They went the financial office, a small, dark room overseen by a cashier and bookman who handed them out their weekly payment and left the theatre for a dark, heavily clouded sky, that looked like it would erupt every moment with rain.

Alexander handed Yuuri a few coins, paying back a small debt, before they parted ways for their lunch.

Yuuri hurried to get to the butcher he had discovered yesterday and bought some cuts of cold roast duck and he quelled the slight nagging of his conscience with the thought of confession on Sunday (his priest would probably fall asleep. Or laughing from his seat). Not to mention that there was no fasting to adhere to and who knew whether Viktor had regular meat dishes, so it was for the best to take care of a decent dinner. With that thought, he went for the next baker, getting himself half a pound of fresh, dark bread, decidedly not looking at the soft, golden-crusted white loafs that took centre stage in the baskets behind the shops mistress; there had to be a limit to how much non-Sunday decadence he would allow himself to indulge in, after all.

At a market stall he managed to get some fresh, sweet cherries, probably the first this year, before heading back to the theatre. Thank goodness for today being so chilly. As much as it had bothered him in the morning, right now it was a blessing that the meat wouldn't spoil in the next few hours from the heat.

Then he actually got around to pick up a new razor and soap as well, pausing then at the show window of a book store, pondering the display for a while, but ultimately, a collection of histories (all by authors that sounded rather dry) and a few racy novels were not quite the right incentive for Yuuri to pay money for, especially not when he still had to pay for next week's board and bread and needed save up for some new clothes.

So off he went, passing his time admiring the cakes in a confectioner's show window, layered and covered in sugary glacé.

Maybe he would get one of these at some point later, when he had more money at his disposal and the occasion was right.

It was time to get back to the theatre anyways if he wanted to avoid getting himself and his purchases wet.

His timing was right on cue. When he reached the theatre square, the first droplets were drizzling down on him and a few seconds after he had stepped through the door the soft splatter hardened and increased in frequency. Looking out, Yuuri saw a silvery grey, shimmering curtain fall and hide the world from sight, cutting the theatre off and leaving him stranded here.

“There you are.” Viktor’s slightly amused voice didn’t startle him half as much as Yuuri would have thought and he turned around.

“Hello.”

“Our engagement for tonight is still standing?” Viktor asked softly, voice velvety with his accent.

Stepping a bit closer to where the voice was coming from Yuuri nodded. “Of course.”

“I am not keeping you from anything?”

“Not in the least.” Yuuri smiled. “Also, it would be a shame if I had bought dinner for nothing, right?”

“I suppose.” There was a smile in Viktor’s voice. “I am looking forward to it.”

“Me too.” Yuuri's ears felt slightly warmer than it was usual for him. “I hope I did well yesterday?”

“Yes. A lot better.” Yuuri heard something like a single, soft handclap. “I do think tutoring you will be an utter joy.”

“Let’s hope I won’t disappoint you.”

A soft rustle of hair and fabric spoke of a headshake. “I sincerely doubt that. Would you come here?”

Yuuri stepped closer.

“Turn around please.”

He did and again felt the grip of two strong, long-fingered hands on his shoulders, pulling him up, widening and opening his chest as it felt.

Viktor chuckled. “I hunched too for a long time. At some point Yakov was so fed up with me he had me wear a corset.”

“I would rather not,” Yuuri commented.

Viktor chuckled. “It _did_ help. And my waist looked just superb.” His thumb brushed the nape of Yuuri’s neck and he shivered just a little, straightening up even more.

“Alright,” Viktor said, “that should do it.” Then the feeling of his hands was gone, replaced by a faint sense of lacking. “Work hard and have fun tonight.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri whispered, “See you later.”

“See you later.” And with a soft rustle and even softer steps, Viktor was gone.

 

Some time later other chorus singers, orchestra musicians and the last few ballet dancers came running in, dripping wet, shivering and in equal parts cursing the blasted weather and laughing about their hilariously bad luck.

A few towels were procured and made the rounds, mostly among the orchestra members.

Yuuri pitied them heartily.

“Oh, food!” Thomas, half naked, standing in a puddle and still dripping, reached out and Yuuri quickly put himself in front of the small basket containing his treasures. “Food. Yes. For you. No. Hands off and get dry, please.”

“Date with your girl, right?” Johannes peeked into the basket. “Pretty simple fare.”

“It’s not like I could afford lobster,” Yuuri shrugged.

“True,” Johannes sighed wistfully. “What have you planned anyways?”

“Uh…” Singing lessons were probably not a good answer. “Don’t know. I mean first eating a bite, don’t know if she’s got her dinner worked out for tonight. Then…” He shrugged. “Uh..”

“Spending time together?” Johannes helped out.

“Yes, yes exactly!” Yuuri nodded quickly.

Again, Johannes glanced into Yuuri's basket. “No wine though?”

“No…” Oh no, he hadn't thought about a drink. Inwardly, Yuuri cursed himself for his own stupidity.

But instead of a short tirade of how inconsiderate Yuuri was for not getting his sweetheart some sweet wine Johannes gave him an almost relieved smile. “You’re serious with her, eh? No getting her drunk and more agreeable and doing something stupid?”

It took Yuuri a moment until he understood what Johannes was trying to say. When he did, his stomach turned a little colder. “I know why you’re worried, really, I do,” he answered in a low voice, lowering it even further as he went on. “But could you please not expect me to be an awful person?”

Johannes blinked at him and then, slowly, he nodded. “Yes. I'm sorry, just...”

Yuuri nodded and then sighed. “Yeah. I know.”

They changed into their costumes, some of them still shivering and fighting for a last, somewhat not dripping towel while others were wringing out their shirts and pants and spreading them over whatever chair and bank and seat they could find, in hopes of it getting somewhat dry during performance.

“Let's just pray it won’t rain the whole night through,” someone grumbled in a very broad, chewed accent that identified him as Bavarian. “I got better things to do than being stuck in here with you all.”

“Yeah,” Andreas replied, “we love you too, Gustl!”

August grumbled some more but refrained from further voicing his opinion on his Saxonian colleagues. Considering how Andreas was staring the man down, this was probably for the best. And here Yuuri had thought the animosities between Sienans and Milanese were bad.

Chatting they left for the stage, Yuuri glancing around for a sign that Viktor was nearby.

There was nothing, of course. According to him, Viktor always listened from the room above the stage to the left, but Yuuri still looked out for him.

Behind the stage, Mr. Feltsman gave them his usual, short speech and then left them to it.

The curtain rose.

The orchestra started playing. Ballet dancers rushed past them on stage, the stage lights were blindingly bright, filling Yuuri's head with white, leaving room for nothing but music.

Yuuri went through the performance in a strangely lucid, dreamlike state, acutely aware of what was happening around him and what cues were being given, yet at the same time distant, centred in himself and his singing.

The daze was beginning to pass off and Yuuri found himself talking to Andreas when his head was clear again. The other singers looked content. It had gone well enough then, good.

The ballet dancers were leaning against beams and posts, stretching and cooling down, the soloists were breathing in deeply, coming down from the high wave that came with a good performance.

The Crispino looked sufficiently exhausted after having been defeated by the forces of good and enlightenment. The Babitch seemed better off, but both Yuri Plisetsky and Elise Hermann leaned half against a post, half against Johannes Erhardt's massive shoulders.

Plisetsky finally shook himself up and made an attempt to walk away. “Oh well, then. Night!”

Mr. Feltsman himself seemed untouched by the general exhaustion, looking as sharp and stern as ever. “Yuri!”

Plisetsky stopped dead in his tracks and slowly turned around. “What?”

“You're still to meet up with tonight's patrons!”

“But I'm tired,” Plisetsky complained. “I wanna go home and sleep!”

“The weather is really quite oppressive,” Johannes Erhardt agreed.

“So? We went through an opera, we can manage some socialising.” Mr. Feltsman shot them all a dark look. “Also, it's still raining. You'll get pneumonia if you go out now, all of you, I advise against it.”

“Urgh...” Plisetsky groaned heartily, leaning against the beam, a hand on his brow. “Don't want, don't want!”

“People like seeing you!”

“Yes, and I don't like seeing people!”

Yes, Yuuri concluded, a good deal of the drama the boy had so heartily complained about was most definitely of his own making.

He stretched and headed off to the changing room, closely followed by other singers.

“Damn, still wet,” Alexander grumbled, feeling his clothes.

“Well, it's not like it matters,” Thomas quipped. “When we're on our way home we'll get wet again anyway.” He shrugged his clammy, stiff shirt on and squirmed a bit, but bravely also wiggled himself into his trousers and his waistcoat. “Yuuri, you gotta go out too, right?”

Thankfully not,” Yuuri replied. “We're meeting here.”

Johannes turned around, grinning. “She's been in the audience tonight? No wonder you've been singing so well.”

“Uh, yeah.” Again, Yuuri's ears grew hot and he scratched his neck. “And...”

“The guy's in a hurry, now let him go!” Andreas laughed. “Have a fun evening!”

“Behave!” Alexander called.

“Will do!” He waved, grabbing his basket and then quickly left, wandering through the corridors, carefully looking around whether someone was passing by who could notice him.

Nobody.

Behind the stage, there was still the usual post-performance rustle of taking down props and background paintings.

He waited a moment, then climbed up the ladders and balanced along a pole towards the left.

“Oi, you there, whatcha doin' uper!”

He flinched and turned around. The German was spread and broad and soft, but the way it was yelled at him transformed the softness into a slingshot of mud.

“I... I'm from the chorus... just... just wanna eat my dinner in peace... I mean, with the rain...” He quickly held up the basket. “Over here, the way's shorter.”

The man stared at him in puzzlement and then frowned. “Yaer nat gatting in da way, up haare, roight?”

“No, of course not!” Yuuri quickly climbed up another few stairs so the man could pass. “Good night.”

“Eh. Naight.”

Apparently he was free to go now and so he did, climbing the last bit until he reached the corridor. Then he paused, lighting a candle before proceeding to the door.

The small gap between wood and floor emitted a low, orange light. Viktor was here already.

Suddenly, Yuuri felt his heart racing and he became acutely aware how hot his ears still were and how the blood rushed through his body and...

Focus. Focus, focus, focus, this wasn't even a try out, if he froze up at the prospect of facing his new tutor, it might be for the best if he left the stage for good.

He knocked softly and then listened to the subtle fall of footsteps coming closer.

Then the door opened, just a hand's width and he heard Viktor's voice, “Ah, you're here!”

It made his heart race even faster.

“Come in, come in.” The door opened a bit more and Yuuri slipped in. “I brought something for dinner. Don't know if you have eaten yet, but...”

“How sweet of you.” The smile in Viktor's voice just made Yuuri's heart race some more.

The room was a lot brighter than last time, still hidden in a lot of shadow, but at the very least Yuuri could make out the measurements of the room – somewhat spacious – and its furbishing – rather sparse. In a corner he could see some stacks of blankets and something that looked like an old canopy, all stacked together. In another he could make out a small cembalo.

The air was heavy and warm as usual with attic rooms, but considering the lack of dusty staleness - a place taken by refreshingly cool, soft dampness - the window had to have been opened a while ago and closed only recently.

Viktor stood in the shadow, near the window, just like last time. Unlike last time, though, Yuuri could make out his sharp cheekbones and high brows. He was tempted to call his face – and his posture, for that matter – dramatic.

“Close the door, will you?” Viktor asked and Yuuri obeyed.

“So, the old badger wants to put you through dance lessons on last minute?”

Yuuri sighed. “Afraid so.”

“Your singing was fine then?” Viktor asked, still with a smile in his voice.

“He didn't complain, so I guess I found mercy in his eyes.”

Viktor laughed dryly. “First lesson, Yakov does not have - does not Do? - mercy.”

Yuuri smiled. “To be honest, I guessed as much.”

Viktor clapped his hands. “Wonderful, then we can start with your lessons properly. I say you go through the chorus pieces in the _Wildschütz._ And sing yourself warm again, just to be safe.”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow; the performance hadn’t ended an hour ago.

“Your voice starts to cool very fast, I noticed, and then it continues very slowly. You didn’t notice?”

“I usually don’t do much proper singing or practise after a performance and for the singing I _do_ it apparently never was a problem.”

Viktor clucked his tongue. “We will discuss your opinion that a duet with me does not count as proper singing another time. Get warm now.”

While Yuuri did so, Viktor walked to the cembalo and started playing some keys.

Yuuri listened and then sang the harmony Viktor had just played.

Viktor played another set of notes and Yuuri repeated them.

After a few repetitions of this process, Viktor started to play a proper tune.

Yuuri recognized an aria from Rossini's _Otello_ and fell in, swearing revenge upon the new husband of the woman he still loved.

Viktor nodded along either with approval or with the music as he played.

The aria ended with Yuuri’s voice at the back of his mouth, on a high note - he kept it there and continued to hum a melody of long, almost mournful notes, that continued into a still mournful, yet slightly livelier back-and-forth before picking up the melody of the aria again.

Just humming it, the song did sound somewhat depressing. However, it was far funnier than it probably seemed and Yuuri found himself smiling as he dropped the tune. “I think I'm warm enough?”

“Yes, you sound alright.” Viktor took a look at him. “And you don't even hunch a little. Very good. So, some of the chorus pieces then. Might be easiest to go through them in chronological order.”

Yuuri nodded. “Well, they have largely the same lyrics, so at least they were easy to memorize.”

“Which makes the other aspects of these songs all the more important. Let's start then, shall we?”

Yuuri nodded and listened as Viktor played the lead in to the first chorus piece. “So munter und fröhlich wie heute, Beim Tanze, beim Weine, So möchten wir, ihr lieben Leute, Recht oft uns des Lebens freun.” How often in the last few weeks had he sung this damn piece? Often enough that Yuuri started to long for opening night. Opening night would not immediately stop these damn things from being sung, but there was a definite end of it in sight, at least for a few months.

Viktor interrupted him with a short smash on the keyboard.

Yuuri flinched and turned around.

“Start over, please, will you?” Viktor didn't sound annoyed per se, but Yuuri could tell that he was very much not happy.

“Not good?” he asked, “I was in tune, I think, but if you heard something else...”

“No, no, that is fine. But you are so expressive with the _Va, Pensiero_ , so why is there so little joy in this piece here?”

“Oh.” Yuuri swallowed. “I... well, honestly...”

“Yes?” Viktor drawled and Yuuri had the nagging feeling of being laughed at a bit.

“I don't know... never thought about it, really.” His gaze grew too heavy to hold it upright and he stared at his feet. “Sorry.”

“No, don't be.” Viktor still didn't sound like he was too happy with Yuuri's singing, but he most definitely wasn't laughing at him anymore, if he ever had. “Let's start over. More joyous this time. You're on a wedding shower. Probably already a bit tipsy and...”

“I don't have to pay for the food,” Yuuri blurted out, before he could stop himself. His ears grew hot almost immediately. “Well, I mean...”

Viktor laughed. “That's as legitimate a reason to be happy as any other I ever heard of. It is probably the most legitimate reason that there is.”

The heat in Yuuri's ears grew worse.

“Think of that. Go on.”

Yuuri nodded and finished on “Und möge sein Ehestand eben - So heiter und fröhlich sein.”

“Better,” Viktor said.

 _Better_ did not equal _good_ and Viktor’s voice was resounding with this fact. “Technically you are doing good, really. Your expression is something we can work on.”

It was most definitely meant to be encouraging, but Yuuri had some trouble believing it.

“Next?” Viktor suggested.

He nodded. It was probably for the best before Viktor realized how much of a failure Yuuri really was just as he had started tutoring him. Better to move on for the moment and do better.

Viktor again played the lead in, this time the melody of Gretchen and Baculus having their little argument.

Yuuri commented on it like he tended to comment on Alexander and Thomas having a moment of sibling spitefulness. “Seht doch den verliebten Streit! Hahahahahahahahahahahaha! - So munter und fröhlich wie heute, Beim Tanzen, beim Weine, So möchten wir, ihr lieben Leute, Recht oft uns des Lebens freun. Herr Baculus, er soll leben, Denn er hat dies Fest uns gegeben, Und möge sein Ehestand eben - So heiter und fröhlich sein!”

Apparently he managed to keep the mood sufficiently cheerful as he sang through the repetition of the first verse. At the very least he didn’t tell Yuuri to stop, so he continued with a solo line from one of the guests. “Man wird müd' vom vielen Springen; Lasst uns lieber etwas singen, Ein fideles Lied mit Chor.”

That was pretty much the end of it and he looked expectantly over to Viktor.

Even in light that bad Yuuri could see that he had raised an eyebrow.

His stomach churned at the thought. “Is... “ He swallowed. “My expression?”

“It was better than the first two,” Viktor said, quickly. “You pick up on cues very quickly.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri mumbled, for lack of a better reply.

“You switched to baritone for the last bit?”

“Yes. The singer for that bit is one, so I figured I should sing it in baritone.” He scratched his neck.

Viktor nodded. “Well, you do have a rather low tenor so I guess it figures. This switching is hard for you? With the _Freude, Schöner Götterfunken_ you said you could not do it.”

“It takes some practise with some pieces. With others a bit less and with some, like the _Freude_ I can't do it all." Yuuri shrugged. "There is no break between the lines. With the song just now I have a break so it worked out."

"I see. You do it often?"

"Rarely. There is no need.” By now, Yuuri had the distinct feeling of having done something rather silly. “I think… we should go on? What can you say about that singing?”

Viktor tapped his chin with a finger. “As I said, technically you are fine. You had a very thorough education. Your breathing could be better, though, you run out of air mid-line too often and don’t breathe in properly afterwards. And you hunched again. This might be connected and if you don’t stop it I _will_ put you into a corset.”

Well, this did not sound like _Technically you are fine_ , not in Yuuri's book, but who was he to argue?

“And the expression?”

“As I said, it was better now. There is still much room for improvement. But I think you are doing good.” Now there was a smile in Viktor's voice, that didn't sound mocking in the slightest. “Shall we continue?”

“With the song the Count and the Baron sing with their hunters?” Yuuri asked. “I think the bits and pieces the country folk have with Baculus are not cohesive enough to form a decent song, so...”

Viktor clapped his hands. “Good idea.” He started to work the cembalo keys again.

“Seht dort den muntern Jäger, Den wilden Büchsenträger, Er zieht aus stillem Haus Ganz früh zum Wald hinaus”, Yuuri started. The song was cheerful, but the interactions were formal and highly structured; it helped him on the deliverance of the first two verses of the song, but he knew he was failing at the slight bawdiness on which the song ended. “Und schwelgt in freud'ger Lust An seines Liebchens Brust! Da braucht kein Horn der Jäger, Der zahme Büchsenträger. Trara! Trara! Trara!”

He sighed, when it finally ended.

“You don't like singing such parts?” Viktor asked.

“Raunchier stuff?” Yuuri shook his head. “I don't quite know how to deliver something like that and... I tried and I ended up feeling silly for it.”

“Why is that so?” Viktor continued asking. “You don't look like you're fifteen anymore, so surely, you had a lover or two so far.”

“No,” Yuuri replied. It came out good deal sharper than he liked it and quickly – and a bit softer – he added, “There was never an occasion. Or a reason.”

“I see.”

Yuuri could feel Viktor staring at him and he quickly drew his shoulders back. “And in any case, I doubt I'd be even remotely able to do raunchy if I had slept with all of Milan and Rome.”

Viktor gave this a moment of consideration, then Yuuri saw him nod. “No, I don't think so. It seems very contrary to you.” And then, with a smile, he added, “But see, that's what acting is for. Seems to be your problem.”

“Along with the occasional freezing up on stage,” Yuuri sighed. “Are you still sure you want to tutor me?”

“Of course.” Viktor laughed. “Or why do you think are we here?”

Yuuri's throat tightened, but for once it didn't feel like it was a precursor to him freezing up. He swallowed.

“So, we go on?”

“Gladly.”

They went through some more chorus pieces, occasionally commenting on how charming and generous and not at all despotic and all-in-all awful the Count was as a person.

“Are we sure this is set in some other place than Russia, it feels very much like Russia to me,” Viktor sighed, when Yuuri was finished with the last Chorus piece; yet another adulation the country folk had for their oh-so-generous landlord, who just had re-installed their school master to his position.

“The author of the libretto was German, the composer is German, I think I am more Russian than this thing,” Yuuri commented. “And at least he is supposed to be of doubtful quality and the audience is supposed to get it.”

“And the country folk doesn't get it and those who do accept it and nothing ever changes.” Viktor's voice was dripping with sarcasm.

Yuuri chuckled. “And here I was thinking nobody could hate this piece as passionately as Plisetsky. I stand corrected.”

“To be fair, though, there are not many things dear little Yuroshka doesn't hate with a burning passion.” Viktor left the cembalo and gestured to Yuuri to follow him.

In the moment of silence they could hear the rain splatter against the roof and windows and when Yuuri looked outside he could not even see one single street light. “Now, that looks delightful,” he sighed.

“You brought dinner, right? We can still wait for a bit,” Viktor suggested.

As if on cue, Yuuri's stomach rumbled a bit and he laughed nervously. “Yes, sounds like a good idea. Mind you, I forgot to bring something to drink, though.”

“That's alright.” He sat down on the canopy. “I am not fond of German beer. Even less of their wine. Remind me to prepare some tea for next time.”

“That sounds nice.” Picking up the basket he came over to the canopy and – after a gesture Viktor made with one of his long-fingered, slender hands – sat down.

Viktor pulled one of the candles closer so they could see the contents of the basket they were taking out.

Yuuri could see the curve of Viktor's mouth quirk up. “Do you feed all random strangers offering you singing lessons in an attic so well or am I special?”

“Depends on if you want to be,” Yuuri retorted without thinking. That happened a moment later. “I mean...”

“That sounds good. I think I will take you up on that.” Viktor procured a knife and offered it to Yuuri.

He took it and cut slices from the loaf, putting pieces of fowl on it and handing one of them to Viktor. “Enjoy.”

“I will.”

Yuuri himself took a bite. The butcher had a good choice; the meat was firm and juicy, but gave way instantly when he took a bite, filling his mouth with hints of pepper, bay and some nutmeg that went along well with the almost game-like taste of the roast.

“By the way, what was that song you were humming before?” Viktor asked. “The one after the aria. I think I’ve heard it before, but I can’t quite put the finger on it.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

In response, Viktor started to hum the melody in question.

“Ah, this one.” Yuuri chuckled. “ _Duetto buffo di due gatti_.”

“Comedic duet of two cats,” Viktor repeated in heavily accented German, probably to make sure he had caught that right.

Yuuri nodded as memory made him giggle. “Yes, it’s… it’s supposed to be for two sopranos but Ce- Maestro Cialdini made pretty much everyone sing it, especially the children. It was his way to deal with singers being cross with each other. It is hard to be at odds with someone after you have exchanged some soulful meows and angry hisses.”

Apparently Viktor had just been chewing on a bite for Yuuri’s explanation was answered with very hectic coughing.

He flinched. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. I think. But… meows.”

“Well… it is a duet between _cats_ after all,” Yuuri commented.

Viktor chuckled. “I take it worked?”

“It did. We usually managed to get at least halfway through before we started laughing.”

“I still don’t know why it sounds so familiar. Give me some help here?”

“It’s bits and pieces mainly, put together,” Yuuri said. “A lot of it from _Otello_ _,_ but I think there were a few other scores used as well.”

"Ah, that's why.” Viktor nodded. “If you get the chance, would you get me a copy of the score?”

“I’ll look around. There is a very nice little store on Palmstraße. Sells sheet music and some learning materials and some theatre guides - really good.”

“I think I know which one you mean.” Viktor nodded again. “Rather grumpy shop girl, right?”

Yuuri chuckled. “Always annoyed when you disturb her reading.” He took another bite. “It’s for two sopranos, but I think it would sound quite good with baritone as well.” He hummed the first few beats and listened to Viktor repeating them. Oh yes, this sounded lovely.

And it was getting later and later…

Yuuri listened to the rush and rustle and flow outside. “Do you think it will stop anytime soon?”

Next to him Viktor shrugged, brushing against Yuuri’s arm. “Not likely, I fear. Do you live far from here?”

“Better half of an hour to walk.” The prospect was very much not to Yuuri’s liking. He would be soaking wet and chilled through to the bone and no way Mrs. Haubener would allow him some hot water at this hour.

“No way.” Viktor's voice was as firm as his hand on Yuuri's arm. “You'll catch your death. Or at the very least a bad cold and if you are just one lick like any other normal singer I've ever met, you wont get some proper rest them, allowing it to develop into a fullblown pneumonia and no way you would survive this.”

Yuuri blinked. That sounded quite dramatic. “Are you suggesting I stay over, then?” he slowly asked.

“Well, I am not insisting, but if you wish to stay, I certainly won't mind.” Again there was this smile in Viktor's voice that was very quickly becoming Yuuri's doom. It was so warm, like honey, like an alto singing the lowest, clearest notes and so inviting and lulling.

“Well...” He still looked out the window. “Well, I guess it is better than walking through the rain.”

“Indeed,” Viktor confirmed, nodding, bending over to reach for some of the blankets. “It is getting cool. Here.” He quickly shook open one of them and draped it over Yuuri.

Well, it had gotten cool, yes, and Yuuri snuggled into the blanket. It got him to lean against Viktor's side a bit, but it felt good, so why not? He remained as he was. “Thank you.”

“You can tell me about Milan, if you like,” Viktor mumbled, as Yuuri felt a weight leaning on him. “You must miss home.”

“No,” he mumbled. “I do. I do miss it, I mean.” His tongue was growing heavier with drowsiness, just as his eyelids. “Miss it, miss Celestino and everything and this place is still strange. Cold. It's summer and still so cold.” The warmth of the blankets crept into his body, pleasantly numbing his limbs. “But... never could think of it as home...” Celestino had wanted him to think of Milan as his home. And Yuuri had tried, he really had, but how could he when he never had looked even remotely like the people around him, when his name had sounded so weird in their voice?

How?

Those thoughts were too heavy.

It was too late an hour.

And with Viktor's warmth and weight against him, along with the blankets were so good, so right, so _perfect._

“Sorry...” He yawned. “Night.” And he was out in an instant.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Considering the fact that I picked German operas for this thing, should I provide translations for the texts I use?
> 
> Thank you all again for reading and for commenting. You all make my day.
> 
> btw, the thing Yuuri mentioned was this one here (not by Rossini himself, some English guy cobbled it together largely from Rossini works) https://youtu.be/_4su9_GJNMA   
> Please imagine Yuuri and Yuri working on this.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Falling in love ensues and some Romantic operas with supernatural themes are discussed.

When Yuuri awoke, the room was steeped in clear, grey light, highlighting the birch wood floor and the faded green tapestries at the wall and how much bigger the room was than he had originally anticipated.

His poor eyesight blurred the room quite a bit, but he still could make out most of it. Why hadn’t he realized that his voice didn’t rebound as to be expected from a relatively small, square chamber that he had assumed this to be?

Then he noticed the reason for him not paying attention to such minor details.

Viktor was leaning against him, still fast asleep and close enough for Yuuri to see him clearly without his glasses on.

In the early morning, these strange, sunless yet light filled moments of dawn, Yuuri could appraise him fully for the first time, the high brow, sharp cheekbones and the long, straight nose.

As Yuuri had guessed, Viktor had very fair, blonde hair, almost silvery, hanging over the left side of his face and trailing down his neck and chest. His skin was milky pale, translucent even; Yuuri could see fine veins branching over his cheeks and into his heart-shaped, just slightly rosier tinted lips, curved into a smile of pleasant dreams.

 _Moonlight made flesh_ _,_ it shot through his mind.

His lashes laid thick and heavy on his cheeks, just as fair as both his skin and his hair covering his brow.

He leaned in closer, watching his throat flutter with pulse, chest rising and falling with breathing.

Yuuri wanted to raise a hand, run his fingers through the fine, silvery strands. Slowly, very slowly, he did.

Viktor moved and grumbled softly and Yuuri lowered his hand again, watching as Viktor's face twitched a bit, his brow furrowed and his nose crinkled.

His lashes fluttered and then Yuuri could look into his eyes, which were as translucent as the rest of his face and of a clear, sweet-water blue colour.

Viktor blinked and then, cocking his head slightly to the left, smiled. “Good morning.”

Yuuri's chest widened much the same way it did when Viktor pulled his shoulders back.

Also his cheeks grew very warm. “Good morning.”

“I hope you haven’t slept too badly. I know, the couch is quite through…”

Yuuri quickly shook his head. “Oh no, it was fine, really.” Truth was that he had quite a stiff neck and once he got up, he was sure that his back would be ready to kill him. It didn’t bother him half as much as one would have guessed, though, and ultimately the prospect of his back killing him upon getting up was just the more reason to stay exactly as he was.

Viktor sighed with something like regret. “I live further downstairs, actually, with a proper bed and everything, but I didn’t think you would make it safely down the flights.”

“No, really. I am fine.” Yuuri blinked. “Just need my glasses.”

“Ah, yes.” Viktor reached behind Yuuri and handed him the glasses.

“Thank you.” Looking around, the room seemed to be more regularly occupied than lived in indeed. “Wherever you usually sleep, I think I will take you up on that offer.” He rolled his shoulders and then, finally, sat up.

Yes, his back was out for blood. Nothing that wouldn’t leave in a few hours, so Yuuri could deal with it. In fact he could deal with it extremely well. He stretched a bit as Viktor looked out the window, sighing. “I better get downstairs before the day starts here.”

“Long way?” Yuuri asked.

“Longer if there are people to avoid. When it’s dead in here I can go the direct route.”

Yuuri was terribly tempted to ask why he had to avoid people but Viktor continued, chuckling, “And Yuroshka will throw a tantrum if I am not on spot for breakfast.”

“Yurosh…” Yuuri ran the name through his head. “Plisetsky?”

“Yes, worse than a cat at feeding time.” Viktor looked at Yuuri, raising his right eyebrow. “What is it?”

He must have made the weirdest face, but it was a strange thought after all. “Plisetsky has a nickname. And it’s a cutesy one by the sound of it.”

“It is, but I advise against calling him that to his face,” Viktor said, expression grave. “There are rumours he killed a man over it.”

“What…” Yuuri shook his head. “Despite the fact that I know this is a joke I can’t put this beyond him.” He stretched and finally and not without regret shook off the blanket. “How did you get to know him anyways?”

“Oh…” Viktor laughed. “I’ve known him since he was a little child.” He indicated with his hand how small Plisetsky supposedly had been. That still didn’t answer Yuuri’s question, though.

He didn’t ask any more. “Well then. Lead the way to the exit. I am not sure Mr. Feltsman will like the thought of me squatting in the theatre.”

Viktor shrugged and for the first time Yuuri noticed that he wore brightly striped, loose trousers that looked like he had pilfered them from an old pirate costume. “There are as many things Yakov likes as there are things Yuroshka doesn’t hate.”

Those silly trousers didn’t change the fact that Viktor was very well built and proportioned like a Renaissance sculpture. They also did nothing to hide the way Viktor carried himself, betraying some formal dance training.

When he smiled now, Yuuri saw his heart cheerfully running his direction and equally cheerfully he waved it goodbye.

The theatre was dead silent this early in the morning, devoid of any human presence sans theirs, but Viktor still stepped softly, carefully looking around for people.

Yuuri felt like a thief, sneaking around like that, especially considering the fact that they never met anyone. Behind the stage, Viktor headed down a hallway very quickly, another flight of stairs and then into the shadow, fumbling at a small chain around his neck. Then he heard the crunching and clicking of a door being unlocked. “Come on,” Viktor whispered and Yuuri followed his voice through a small door.

It was closed and locked again the moment he stepped through it and Yuuri had only a brief moment to glimpse at bare walls, no whitewash, no tapestry. The air as well was significantly chillier than upstairs. “You live down here?”

Viktor's hand searched for Yuuri, found him and he pulled him a little closer. “A bit further down, yes. The theatre is vaulted, but nobody ever went down there, so I could stay there. It's a lot cosier than you might think, really.”

Steps were coming closer and Viktor smiled. “Ah, Yuri's coming.”

Yuuri sighed. “I should go then, I guess.”

Viktor blinked at him. “What, why? You'd have to be back in an hour or so anyway, so why even go?” He reached out to brush Yuuri's fingers with his own.

“Plisetsky doesn't seem to quite like me.” Yuuri sighed. “And I am sure he will like it even less if I disturb him first thing in the morning.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “Why would Yuroshka not like you? Well, granted, again, there are not many things he actively likes and even less people.” He tapped his finger against his nose. “But he has not spoken negatively of you.”

“What?”

Again, the lock clicked and whispered and the door opened, just a slip.

“Oi!” Plisetsky's voice called, softly, “Viktor! You up already?”

Viktor turned over his right shoulder. “Good morning, Yuroshka,” he chirped in German.

Plisetsky grumbled something in a very soft, full, watery language that sounded very beautiful and at the same time like the obscenity that it obviously was.

Viktor clucked his tongue. “Such foul language this early in the morning, I raised you better than this.”

“Stop calling me this stupid name the- oh.” It was in this moment that Plisetsky noticed Yuuri standing there.

In what little light there was Yuuri could see his face twist. Then he heard him say “Urgh. Really.”

“Good morning,” Yuuri mumbled.

“Hm. Morning.” Plisetsky fumbled for a bit and then closed and locked the door. “Good, let's get moving.”

“Gladly.” Viktor took Yuuri's hand and gently pulled him into a walk. It was just as well; without Viktor leading him, Yuuri would have never known where to go or where he was supposed to be going. He tightened his grip around Viktor's fingers.

“Careful, the ground is uneven here,” Viktor warned. “Bit slower, yes?”

“Yes.”

Behind him, Plisetsky snorted as if annoyed with something.

“We'll be there soon,” Viktor reassured. “Oh, careful, we are at some stairs – you need me to hold you?”

Yuuri felt Viktor descending a bit and slowly, with searching, shuffling feet he followed. “No, I think I'm good.”

Behind him, Plisetsky snorted.

The stairs went on for a good while. How deep did these vaults go?

“We're down,” Viktor finally said.

“Took us long enough,” Plisetsky grumbled.

“Well, I remember _someone_ clutching my hand and being afraid of falling the first time he came down here,” Viktor chided.

Plisetsky snorted again, but said nothing. “Good, we’re down here, time for the dramatic reveal. Behold, Katsuki, behold the lair of infinite stupid!” There was a slight, distinct echo. The room was large, with a high ceiling.

From a gust of air Yuuri guessed that he was making a big, swooping gesture, then he heard yet another fall of steps and then there was a soft hiss and then a single, small flame, vaguely illuminating a slender hand carrying it.

It moved around and then parted, once, then twice. The new flames grew quickly, revealing their containers to be small oil lamps covered by glass that broke and increased the light.

There were a lot of these lamps. Additionally, Yuuri spotted more and more candelabras. He really did not want to think about how much this had to cost.

As Plisetsky progressed, Yuuri could make out the first pieces of furniture, all pale coloured and gilded. The brighter the room grew, the clearer could Yuuri see that a lot of the furniture – a writing desk, a table, some chairs and a few cabinets – consisted of old stage props, mainly fashioned to emulate the styles of the 17th and 18th century. They were all a bit beaten down, some paint had peeled off, but obviously they were still in a well enough condition to be used.

Yuuri spotted several paper screens separating the one big room into several smaller ones as much as possible. He still could catch a glimpse of what was probably the bed. It, for a change, didn't look like a stage prop.

It looked strangely normal, despite the weird set-up. Maybe because Yuuri could spot clear signs of constant habitation, a shirt over a floor, pens, ink and papers on the writing desk, plates and mugs and a small basket of cutlery in a half-open cabinet.

The whole scene was dominated by a rather haphazard looking, roofed fireplace, with a rack of firewood and a few coals next to it.

“Make yourself at home!” Plisetsky called over his shoulders, while heading there. He poked the dead ashes with a stick until he found a few red-hot embers. Quickly, he placed a piece of coal next to it and then stacked a few logs around it. The final touch was some old newspaper poked between it.

Plisetsky didn't fan his creation or blow on it. There was no need to. He had left enough room for the air to get to the embers as they connected to the paper and their contained heat broke free, dormant flames awoke and licked, feeding and growing.

Yuuri, still holding Viktor's hand, walked in on the place, looking around.

A shelf contained a few books. Next to the desk another shelf held folios and stack of sheet music. The papers on the desk looked like a composition in progress, several lines and beats scratched through and blotted out and replaced.

He could even see some words scribbled below them, subjected to a similar treatment.

“How do you like it?” Viktor’s eyes dashed around nervously, despite both face and voice communicating nothing but utter nonchalance.

Yuuri struggled to find a proper descriptive. “It looks cozy,” he then said and Viktor’s face lit up.

Plisetsky made a gagging sound as he moved about to the back of the place. When he came back it was with a kettle full of water.

The kettle went over the fire.

“Now if you two stopped mooning and set the table?”

Viktor sighed deeply and then let go of Yuuri’s hand. “As you wish, Yuroshka.”

“Stop calling me that!” Plisetsky sounded more and more like an angry kitten the more he spoke. Yuuri almost expected him to hiss and unsheathe tiny, needle-thin claws. Those hurt like hell, though, and he hurried towards the cabinet, grabbing plates and mugs while Viktor cleared the table of some old newspapers.

“Do you live down here too?” Yuuri asked, though he seriously doubted that.

Indeed, Plisetsky shook his head. “Hell no! I just drop by to make sure that idiot eats!”

“And to complain about other singers, the ballet dancers, the musicians and the fact that Mr. Wagner isn’t around any more.” Viktor continued, making a face at the last point.

“Well sorry for mourning the loss of a genius. And sorry for being pissed at the lack of free speech here.” Plisetsky grabbed a tin box from a cabinet and closed the door with a lot more force than was strictly necessary.

Yuuri got the distinct feeling of witnessing an argument that, with some interruptions, already had gone on for a while.

Viktor sighed and declared then, very slow, very clear and very deliberate, “Eddoslysh comram rano utrom, stoya portili moye harasheyn nastroyene bespolesh diskussiy.”

Plisetsky turned red as a lobster. “It wouldn’t be if you’d actually…”

“Yes?” Viktor smiled.

Plisetsky stared at him and he had something to say, Yuuri could see it, but he didn't. Instead, he hissed something, that – again – sounded as obscene as beautiful.

The kettle whistled and Plisetsky headed to the fireplace, working to get them some tea – or at least a herbal infusion in lieu of the former. Smelled like peppermint.

“Breakfast now,” Viktor said. “Yakov will kill me if you get to work on an empty stomach.”

“Uh, just tea is fine by me”, Yuuri mumbled.

“Oh no.” Viktor shook his head, then grabbed Yuuri by the shoulders and placed him firmly on a chair, then proceeded to hold him down, even though Yuuri didn't even try to get up. “There is no way I let you go hungry.”

“But I am sure Yuri brought only food for two persons?” It felt strange speaking out Plisetsky's first name.

“Yuuri, please.” Viktor sat down to his left, one hand still on his shoulder. “You do need to eat. Hunger at best makes you sing with more desperation, but that doesn't always translate to good singing.”

“Tell me about it,” Yuuri sighed. “But really, I doubt you had considered a third person staying over for breakfast.”

Plisetsky shrugged. “Eat my share. I lost my appetite.”

Viktor beamed. “See?” Then, he immediately turned back to Plisetsky. “No need for such drastic measures, though. I'll happily share my portion.”

Plisetsky sighed a very deep “Ugh” and then proceeded to unpack bread, some butter and cheese. “Yakov said there'll be porridge tomorrow.”

“Joy,” Viktor sighed. “We say grace?”

“Eh.” Plisetsky shrugged and did a cross. Viktor followed suit and Yuuri automatically fell in.

“Otche nash suschnj na nebesah!” Plisetsky began and Viktor fell in, “da svyatitsya imya Tvoe ;da priidet Carstvie Tvoe.”

It took Yuuri a moment before he recognized that, whatever their language, they were speaking, it was the Paternoster and he joined them in Latin. “fiat voluntas tua sicut in caelo et in terra,“, he fell in, careful to not mess up their pauses at the end of each line.

They finished the prayer with a mesh up of „Quia tuum est regnum, et potestas, et gloria in saecula“ and „Ibo Tvoe est' Carstvya i sila i slava vo veki“ and finished together on „Amen“.

„Finally!“ Plisetsky sighed and grabbed a knife and cut off a thick slice of brown, heavy bread.

“Didn't you say you lost your appetite?” Viktor asked dryly.

“Nothing like having to say grace with food in front of you to help with that.” Plisetsky handed the bread to Yuuri and then grabbed the cheese.

Yuuri cut himself a thinner slice of each before handing bread and cheese to Viktor and getting himself some tea.

“So, how are preparations for the next thing going on?” Viktor finally asked. “What was it again? After the _Wildschütz_ it was Marschner's _Vampyr_ , right?”

Plisetsky swallowed a big bite of bread. “Yeah, the preparations for the actual work are done.”

Marschner's Vampyr? Yuuri mulled over this, then he remembered that there had been another tryout quite close to the one for the _Wildschütz._ He had only noticed it in passing, decided not to partake and then completely forgotten about it.

“And then?” Viktor asked.

“ _Undine_ ,” Plisetsky answered. “That's coming along pretty well too, a good deal of the cast is set already.”

“Oh, which one?” Viktor perked up. “Hoffmann or Lortzing?”

“Hoffmann, thank goodness.” Plisetsky sighed in relief. “The _Wildschütz_ is already annoying enough and I am not even playing in this. Hoffmann is at least fun.” With that he took a bite.

Viktor arched an eyebrow. “You already know you have a part in this? Undine is pretty slim in the tenor department.”

“Yes and the Duke is only a small role, I know.” Plisetsky shrugged. “If Yakov gives it to me, good. If he wants someone else to sing it, also good.” He shot a sidelong glance to Yuuri. “The female roles are all cast. Kühleborn and the Fisherman too, more or less. Yakov hast three candidates for two roles, he wants to work it out til tomorrow. It's really only Huldbrant and Heilmann that need to be cast.” He, again, glanced sideways to Yuuri.

“I remember. Huldbrandt was fun to sing.” Viktor smiled in a slightly melancholic way. “You were one of the water sprites back then, right?”

“My first chorus role, yes.” There was an equally nostalgic smile on Plisetsky's face that on any other person would have looked charming. On him it looked slightly wrong.

Viktor obviously had been a soloist at the theatre, though. What had happened then, that he had ended up here?

“But your taste still sucks. Huldbrandt is the stupidest piece of...”

“Language,” Viktor said, brushing a few of his long strands back over his right shoulder.

“Huldbrandt is stupid as a basket, is what I say,” Plisetsky grumbled.

“I know, that's exactly why he's so fun to play. Dumb characters are fun. Also, Huldbrandt is not only dumb, he never thinks about his actions even once. He does as he likes, no regards whatsoever. I find that very enjoyable to play. And rather relatable.”

“I bet.” Plisetsky sighed. “Anyways, Marieke Stock and Bertha Hesse are playing the Duchess and the Fisherman's Wife.”

“Well, if you're the duke you can play the angle that Berthulda is your foster sister. Having her be your adoptive daughter would be pushing the boundaries of deniability a bit too much,” Viktor chuckled.

Plisetsky shrugged, but Yuuri could see his mouth twitch. “Sara's to play Undine.”

“The costume department will be delighted to turn her into a pale, translucent nymph, I am sure,” Viktor commented. “Who's Berthalda?”

“Mila Babitch. You remember her? She's the Gretchen in the _Wildschütz_. And Janthe in the _Vampyr_.”

“Cheeky redhead?”

“That's the one.” Plisetsky sighed. “No idea what Yakov was thinking – these two won't get any singing done.” As both Viktor and Yuuri raised an eyebrow, he elaborated, “Too busy making eyes at each other.”

Oh. Yuuri let that thought run through his head. The Crispino was always friendly to her male co-singers , but not overly familiar with anyone and as far as he'd heard she kept her male patrons in check as well.

And the Babitch he had only ever seen in her company. And with her, the Crispino was quite close. Yes, it figured.

“Aw, you're jealous that you don't have anyone to make eyes at?” Viktor laughed. “Don't worry, you're young, you'll find someone soon enough.”

“Blergh, no thank you.” Plisetsky made a face and Yuuri's world fell back into place. To be true, though, the world didn't fall as much as it had a few weeks earlier, when the boy had sought him out on the riverbanks to deliver the first note.

Maybe he could get used to seeing Plisetsky in other contexts than his scowling theatre face.

Viktor laughed. “Yakov will keep them in check, don't worry.”

“Barely.” Plisetsky dug through his pocket. “Katsuki, I think you should go up. Chorus rehearsals begin in less than an hour.”

Yuuri nodded. “Thank you.” He got up.

Viktor did as well. “I will bring you. The way is tricky if you don't know it very well.”

“No point staying then,” Plisetsky sighed. “You gonna stay upstairs, Viktor, right?”

“Yes.” Viktor nodded. “After rehearsal, I would actually like to discuss something with you.”

“Got it. Yakov too?”

Viktor shook his head. “Not yet, I'm still working on it, but there are some parts I would like to hear sung out. Something's still not right with it.”

They finished their tea and while Yuuri gathered the dishes (“Just leave them, I will clean them up later,” Viktor said, which left Yuuri wondering how he would do that), Plisetsky wandered around, blowing out candles and lamps. At the end, the only light left was a lamp in Viktor's hand, guiding Yuuri's and Plisetsky's steps towards him.

Only illuminated by one single light source his cheekbones seemed even sharper, contrasting and complementing his high brow and long nose.

He was half turned to them, looking at them expectantly.

Plisetsky snorted. “Cut the drama, will you?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Yuuri saw the hint of a hand being offered to him and took it.

The way back went on a bit faster, still with Viktor mumbling a warning whenever the ground beneath their feet was about to change.

Upstairs Plisetsky unlocked the door. “I'll go ahead. See you later.” With that, he slipped through the door and closed it behind himself.

Yuuri shook his head. “Has he always been like this or is this him growing up?”

“A bit of both, actually.” Viktor chuckled. “He was a sweet child when he wanted to. When he didn't, he was more angry than a brat, honestly.”

He smiled and held Viktor's hand a bit tighter.

“I think for your lessons we best meet three times a week?” Viktor suggested, switching back to Italian.

Yuuri nodded quickly. “Yes, that sounds good. Unless it's interfering with your own business...”

“Not at all.” There was this smile in Viktor's voice again that so far hadn't failed to make Yuuri's heart pause for a moment. “I would say Monday, Wednesday and Friday in general. The times would depend on whether you have a performance on that evening.” His thumb and index finger from opposing sides slowly wandered over the back of Yuuri's hand.

That was reasonable. It definitely left enough days in Yuuri’s week to prevent Andreas and Thomas from complaining that he didn’t spend enough time with his friends. Hopefully. With Thomas it sometimes was hard to tell.

“Then till next Monday?”

Viktor's voice was smiling. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Yuuri felt a few strands of his hair tickle his cheek as Viktor leaned his temple against his. “Yuri is right, though. You should go up. Yakov might kill me if I cause his singers to show up hungry, but if you show up late it’s your head on the platter. I would deeply regret that.” He opened the door. “See you on Monday then. I’ll listen to rehearsal.”

Yuuri stepped out and into the faint light of the basement, blinking as the door was closed and locked.

Better he got going.

“Katsuki, here!” Oh, Plisetsky was still here?

Yuuri followed his voice towards a stack of rope.

“Get the route into your head, I got better things to do than to play your guide.”

Yuuri nodded. “I will. Thank you.”

Plisetsky shrugged. “Whatever.” He waved Yuuri to followed him.

They climbed up the dangerously steep stairway in silence and only when they reached the door that led into the theatre proper Plisetsky finally took a breath to talk.

“Well, he’s…” He paused. “I mean…”

“A bit odd?” Yuuri offered.

“I was going to say _utter moron_ , but that works, too.” Plisetsky sighed. “He was always like that. Maybe worse. One time he got into an argument with Mr. Wagner and punched him in the face.”

Considering what Yuuri had heard about Wagner, this only endeared Viktor even more to him, but he was wise enough to not voice his opinion.

“Must have been some argument,” he simply answered.

Plisetsky shrugged. “Something stupid, I bet. Maybe Mr. Wagner didn’t want him for a role or whatever. But... just…”

Yuuri watched with slight amusement as Plisetsky’s pale neck slowly took on the colour of a freshly boiled lobster.

“Well, again.” Plisetsky paused, sighed and then continued: “I've known him for a while. He can be quite much. Tell me when he is. I'll deal with him.”

He was serious, he was actually serious in this offer. Yuuri was oddly touched. “Alright. Thank you.”

“And again, if you make trouble...” He turned around, staring at him. “I will know how to make trouble for you, you hear me?!”

He was serious in this as well, Yuuri realized, and he nodded again. “Understood.”

“Good.” Plisetsky was still glaring daggers at him, but now at least a few of these daggers were sheathed. “So. After we're through with the _Wildschütz_ and the _Vampyr_ is underway, there'll be the _Undine_.”

“So I've heard.”

“So?” Plisetsky came to a sudden stop; Yuuri almost crashed into his back.

“What, so?”

“As I said, two roles are still open. Both baritone. Maybe a bit low for you though.” Plisetsky shot him a long glance. “You didn't try out for the _Vampyr_.”

Yuuri smiled wryly. “You remember last time I tried out for a role? That freezing up thing?”

“Yes. Won't happen again, right?”

“I wasn't so sure when the _Vampyr_ tryout rolled around. Didn't want to push my luck. And then I more or less forgot about it once it was clear I would not try out for this.”

“You were afraid,” Plisetsky said, flatly.

And he sounded betrayed. Why did he sound like a little child Yuuri had taken away his favourite toy from?

“Again, that whole freezing up thing.”

“But that's stupid!” The boy whirled around. “It's not like you can't... I mean...” Now his face grew as red as his neck before.

Yuuri blinked.

“Argh!” Again, the boy turned his back to him. “Well, whatever your thing is, you got a tutor now. Work with him and make use of that and get your ass into the next tryout!”

Was he supposed to agree to or to protest this demand? Yuuri honestly had no idea and so he stood there, staring at Plisetsky's ever warmer growing neck.

“So?!” the boy finally pressed through what sounded like very clenched teeth.

“Why do you insist I try out?” Yuuri asked.

Plisetsky shrugged. “No reason, really.” Then, after a moment's silence, he mumbled, “Don't like it when people stop halfway.”

Yuuri pondered this for a moment. Then he sighed. “Well, I'll think about it when Mr. Feltsman informs us about it. Might be he finds his baritones in the meantime.”

Plisetsky shrugged. “Maybe for Huldtbrandt. Heilmann is a small role. He loves giving these to chorus singers.”

Yuuri didn't even notice that he was nodding.

“He'll announce it at the day of the opening night for the _Wildschütz_ , so be prepared then. I can give you the sheet music for it.”

“You're awfully helpful,” Yuuri commented.

Plisetsky shrugged. “I apparently have to. Go. The other chorus singers will show up in a bit.”

“Well, thank you anyways.” Yuuri walked past him.

He realized only that he had more or less accepted the offer when he was already halfway to the backstage area, already doing breath exercises.

Well damnit. But then again, maybe Plisetsky was right. He had a tutor and a good one too, by all impressions. He would be stupid not to prepare himself for a tryout. It would be downright ungrateful after Viktor had agreed to tutor him, if he wouldn't make use of his gained skills.

He was the first of the chorus to arrive, breathing out in sharp puffs and hisses.

When he began to sing his first harmonies, he noticed a movement.

Mr. Feltsman was here already. Of course.

Yuuri came to a halt for a moment, forcing himself to nod a greeting to him. Was he too early? Was he so early that Mr. Feltsman had to come to the conclusion that he had stayed here for the night?

The old man stared at him, squinted a bit and then nodded at him to go on. So Yuuri did. Harmonies rose and fell and then he connected the notes to a single tone, lifting his voice up and letting it plummet into an abyss before it soared again.

He repeated the process three times before he started to sing the first thing that came to mind. Usually, this was the _Va, Pensiero_ . For some reason though, today it was _Greensleeves_.

Yuuri had no clue whatsoever why that was, but it was good, a simple, sweet melody, a good starter. “Alas my love you do me wrong, To cast me off discourteously; And I have loved you oh so long, Delighting in your company.” Granted, the mood was not exactly more cheerful than with _Va, Pensiero_.

Shoulders back, Yuuri reminded himself, as he sang the refrain. “Greensleeves was my delight, Greensleeves my heart of gold, Greensleeves was my heart of joy, And who but my lady Greensleeves.”

Yes. Yes, that sounded well. Yuuri stopped, humming the last note.

“Katsuki.”

Yuuri flinched and slowly turned around to look Mr. Feltsman in the eye. “Yes?”

“You danced in Milan, I trust?”

“A bit.” Truth was, no. Yuuri had liked to dance, but for once, focusing on both his steps and his voice had led to him messing up both at once. Second, while he could somewhat hide in the tapestry of voices a chorus song weaved, the same was never and would never be true for dancing.

“Not much,” he thus added.

“Eh.” Mr. Feltsman sighed. “Last row for the dance then, I guess.”

Yuuri's stomach churned. “I'm sorry, I... I do my best.”

“No. You sing. You're singer,” Mr. Feltsman growled, accent thicker than usual. “Either sing or dance. Or be genius and do both, but only then.” He grumbled some more and Yuuri thought he could hear him continuing to complain about the silly practise of having ballet dancers sing and chorus singers dance that was so regular in most opera houses.

“Warm up. Stretch.”

He soon was joined by the rest of the chorus and Mr. Feltsman repeated to them his orders to stretch and warm up their arms and legs rather than their voices.

“Morning,” Johannes whispered between instances of putting his weight from one leg to another. “Eleonora invites you to lunch tomorrow. Also, Georgi said you were not at your boarding house this morning, where were you?!”

“Rain. Couldn’t get out with that downpour,” Yuuri hissed back.

“Where did you stay then?”

Yuuri was spared the need to answer immediately. Mr. Feltsman had noticed them and bellowed “Less gossip! Work!”

They did as they were told until he turned his attention away from them.

“We didn’t get too far from here anyways.”

“She lives around here?”

Yuuri shrugged. It wasn’t a lie. Less for him to confess tomorrow.

Johannes furrowed his brow as if thinking about this thoroughly. Apparently he came to a conclusion quite quickly, for he nodded. “Alright. You had a nice evening though?”

“Oh yes. Really nice.”

Johannes again looked at him very thoroughly, then he smiled. “Good for you.”

“You two!”

They both flinched and somewhat guiltily finished with their stretching while Mr. Feltsman talked to a very tall, stern looking woman who looked at them with barely veiled disdain on her thin, in a harsh fashion rather attractive face.

“Dance lesson today! Then singing,” Mr. Feltsman growled. “Pathetic. Madam, they are all yours.”

Lilia Barnosk, chief ballet mistress of the theatre, was definitely not impressed by them. “Any of you lot are dancers?!” Her voice was equally harsh as Mr. Feltsman’s, with the difference that she spoke like a snapping whip where Mr. Feltsman’s voice tended to throw rocks at you.

Some of the seniors in the chorus raised their hands, all of them showing signs of several degrees of righteous fear. Yuuri discovered Andreas among them and – yes, the man was awfully pale.

“I trust you all know how to do a Contredanse?!” Madam Barnosk snapped.

They nodded, terrified.

“Do it then. Music! The start!”

Georgi flinched and hurried to smash the piano keys.

The singers placed themselves in pairs and started dancing in half-circles around each other.

The lines and patterns in which they moved were simple enough, cross-paths and side-switching. Not much touching, though.

“That will do!” Madam Barnosk decided and the music died. “You’ll be paired of with some of my girls later when you deserve them! Now learn the steps! Pair off!”

Johannes turned to Yuuri and made a mocking bow. “Dear Miss, may I?”

Yuuri chuckled and did a curtsy. “My, my, why not.”

Around them, similar jokes were thrown around.

The Barnosk clapped her hands. “You all! Dance! You are here to dance! Gossip later!”

They all quickly positioned themselves and then started to dance, wandering the paths around each other, just as they had seen before.

“Stop!” The Barnosk snapped, Stop, you left footed toads! Am I on a wedding shower or a funeral?!”

There was a general shuffle.

“Wedding shower! Dance like it! Be more merry!”

And so they went on, repeating that damn dance more often than Mr. Feltsman had them repeat songs he was not satisfied with.

When Madam Barnosk called “Enough for today! My girls are waiting! Yakov, you deal with them now! I have to work with actual dancers now before I gouge my eyes out from all this clumsiness!” She turned around. “On Monday I expect better! You all have a lot to work on!”

And with that, she rushed off.

Mr. Feltsman sighed, obviously questioning a few of his recent life choices.

Then, wearily, he grumbled, “Ten minutes, then sing yourselves warm! _Wildschütz_ today and first bits of the _Vampyr_!”

Yuuri breathed a sigh of relief. His shirt felt slightly sticky on his back and his face was hot.

“Urgh. Next Monday again?” Johannes sighed while the sheet music for the _Vampyr_ went around. “Guess I'll bring under shirts with me to dance in then.”

“The ballet girls will surely appreciate it,” Yuuri chuckled. “She's as bad as Feltsman.”

“Maybe that's a job requirement for leading directors here,” Johannes grumbled. “Be extremely demanding and scare the shit out of your performers.”

“To be fair, though, Mr. Feltsman is less scary.”

“Yes, because for all his bulk and muscle, it's the Barnosk who could break your neck with her ankle.” Johannes shuddered. Then he looked back at Yuuri and again, he smiled. “You know, being in love is a good look on you.”

Yuuri pondered this for a moment, but his thoughts were cut short when Mr. Feltsman bellowed, “Sing yourselves warm now! We don't have all day!”

Right now singing was all that mattered.

 

Saturday currently held no musical performances and on Sunday the theatre was closed; after a full sing-through of the _Wildschütz_ (with somewhat improved dancing and Mila Babitch bitterly complaining about what a devil the Barnosk was), the late afternoon and early evening belonged all to them.

That gave Yuuri the chance to ponder on Johannes’ comment some more and he came to his conclusion after a rather short period of doing so.

A similar process had gone on in Milan a few years back. Yuuri's peers had started making eyes at the ballet girls, the more daring of them sneaking a peek into their dressing rooms.

Yuuri hadn't. Instead he had developed a soft spot for one of these boys. It had gone nowhere. Yuuri had kept his feelings secret and eventually they had faded, just like the brief period of awkward scratchy voice shifts mid-singing had faded. Looking back, Yuuri couldn't even say why he had liked that boy so much.

Even then he hadn't thought about it that much. He didn't like women. He liked men, more or less, he liked one specific man. That never had been much to mull about. Singing was more important. Besides, he had enough things going on in his life that drove him crazy with worry, damn him if he added _The Undeniable Fact That Women Are Nice But Not For Him While Some Men Are Equally Undeniably Very, Very, Very Attractive_ to the list. Even he needed a break, sometimes.

Having come to that conclusion he went to bed on Saturday, had a good nights sleep and went to Sunday Mass with a clear conscience. After Mass, he confessed having used the Lord's name in vain, having been impatient and having been dismissive of the opinion of a friend.

“Well,”, the priest said, barely concealing his boredom, “well, my son, that entirely depends on the opinion your friend held at that moment.”

“He considered potatoes underrated and started to call them the most democratic of all vegetables. While I do like potatoes, I think he went a bit too far in that statement.”

“Indeed.” With another, bored sigh the priest declared Yuuri's penance (which Yuuri suspected he only gave him because Yuuri would have gone on to pray some anyways). “Pray two Paternoster. Then go and sin no more.”

Well, good luck with that. Humankind being somewhat prone to commit minor and major sins was what kept this man and his peers clothed and fed after all. Briefly Yuuri wondered whether Protestants might had a point after all, but it lasted only until he had started praying down the first Paternoster and the combined effects of the choral singing, the burning incense and the easy, simple monotony of the prayer put most of his fears that were gnawing in the back of his mind, at rest, at least for the moment. If the Protestants had indeed a point, Yuuri was glad to let them keep it.

“Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo. Amen. Pater noster, qui es in caelis: sanctificetur nomen tuum...”

He finished the second Paternoster and then added a third one, just for good measure. Who knew when he might need penance done in advance this week.

So, that was done. When he left the church, the air was light with the ringing of bells, both Catholic and Protestant. The streets were filled with people, all dressed in their Sunday best, chatting amiably with each other, parents with their children, some servants rushing away from church back to work while their masters took a leisure stroll along the Elbe.

At the Elbe was where Yuuri met Johannes accompanied by his two ladies.

Mrs. Eleonora looked as refined and pleasant as ever and he kissed her hand in greeting. “Thank you so much for your invitation.”

Mrs. Eleonora smiled. “It was such a pleasure last time and it has been too long.”

Miss Johanna looked slightly peaked when Yuuri kissed her hand, despite her face being slightly fuller than last time he had seen her. Pregnancy apparently was taking its toll on her.

“I hope you are faring well, Miss?”

She nodded, curtly. “As well as can be.”

Not so well then.

Mrs. Eleonora smiled. “Well, well, I do say we should enjoy the fair weather and take our time before we head home.”

Yuuri offered an arm to Miss Johanna, which was promptly taken.

It _was_ a fair day, not a single cloud in the sky, the air warm and sweet with flowers and greenery. At the riverbanks not even the masses of people sharing into Mrs. Eleonora's idea could drown out the murmur of the Elbe carrying herself down and down and away into the far-off sea.

“So,” Miss Johanna finally said, after the silence between them grew too heavy for an unmarried, pregnant girl of not yet twenty to bear, “Johannes mentioned you found a girlfriend?”

“What?” Yuuri blinked at her and then decided to glare daggers at the back of the poor, unassuming traitor that Johannes was.

“Well, I guess you do look exotic enough,” she continued. “There are people going for this sort of thing.”

Thank you for the reminder, Yuuri thought, biting his tongue.

“But I do seriously hope you do not plan on getting her into trouble.”

Yuuri glanced at her sideways and then his gaze almost involuntarily dropped to her belly, that was still very flat, be it by the natural state of pregnancy or by the force of the corset.

If Miss Johanna noticed, she didn't show it, simply continuing, “People like you are not liked in some quarters here.”

“I never paid attention to that.” And there went the additional Paternoster. Yuuri had started to stop paying attention at the age of eight. At the age of ten he had brought it down to an art and at 15 and after one or two instances of frenzy about it he had started to actively block out how people looked at him. In his first few weeks in Dresden it had surfaced again for a bit, due to the need for him to pay intense attention to what was going on and spoken around him. Since then, though, he again had blocked anything out when other people looked at him for too long or when the baker still spoke extra slow, no matter how well Yuuri understood and answered her. Blocking out was a lot easier than outright dealing with it, most of the time.

“Then you must be rather dense,” Miss Johanna remarked.

How could someone so considerate and kind as Johannes be related to someone like that? Blood ties between her and Plisetsky seemed a lot more probable.

“Anyways,” she continued, smiling, “what kind of person is she?”

Suddenly Yuuri found himself outright longing for Monday.

Or at least for lunch. Lunch would be an immense improvement.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since both me and my beta are participating in Camp NaNo I will produce more chapters (and porn) in April, but they will take a bit more time to get edited, so for now updates are once a month on the 10th until both camp months are through and dealt with and I can dial back on the pages-per-day count to get editing done quicker. 
> 
> A note about the Russian: When the characters speak Russian I will write it down in Roman lettering, since you can't hear Cyrillic lettering. In-story written Russian will be in Cyrillic.  
> Viktor said this: Это слишком рано утром, что я портили мое хорошее настроение бесполезных дискуссий - Eto slishkom rano utrom, chto ya portili moye khorosheye nastroyeniye bespoleznykh diskussiy – It is too early in the morning to spoil my good mood with useless discussions.  
> A hearing aide for me was provided by thegrimshapeofyoursmile.  
> (by the way, if you happen to like history AU's that don't neccessarily play in theatres – check out her „Love in Times of War and Peace“. Do it.)  
> That said, thank you again for dropping in and reading what these morons are up to and hopefully enjoying yourself as much as I do.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 07

 

_Dear Maestro Cialdini,_ Yuuri wrote maybe a week later, paper smoothed over the back of the  _Decamerone._ It had been weeks since he last had written to him and it was gnawing on his conscience, so this morning he had taken his writing implements with him.

But now he sat here, body still aching from the dress rehearsal for the  _Wildschütz_ , dancing included, head still buzzing from the rehearsal of the  _Vampyr_ pieces and stomach busy with an apple he had chewed down before settling in this nook on the gallery to write.

He heard giggling nearby and looked up. Three ballet girls, still in their training whites, sat there, skirts spread around them like clouds. They all were reading a letter the girl sitting in middle held in her thin, calloused fingers.

Smiling at the sight  Yuuri looked back down on his paper.

_June in Dresden has a lot of May in Milan, maybe minus the back alley stabbings. The Germans are efficient when it comes to their police force. I just wish they would show the same dedication when it comes to winemaking. It is no wonder the Teutons remain so faithful to their beer._

Good starter, he decided. It definitely showed that he was well and had adjusted to Dresden with some success.

_I did not get a solo in the_ Wildschütz, _which I am sure does not come as a surprise to you. Still, I am sorry. Shortly after there was another try-out, this time for an opera entitled_ Der Vampyr _. From the synopsis it sounds very much like the epitome of German romanticism, very dark and mysterious – or at least it tries to be. From the chorus parts alone I can not discern much uncanniness. I did not try out for this._

Well, there it was. Yuuri looked down at the words and then sighed, deeply. Celestino would not be happy to hear that. He had always been remarkably gracious, kind and supportive when Yuuri had tried and failed, but the same never had applied when Yuuri hadn't tried in the first place.

Too late. Yuuri stared at the damned words that had escaped his pen an d gnawed on his bottom lip.

He could already see Celestino furrow his brow, hand twitching towards pen and paper to write an answer admonishing him for not giving himself a challenge.

_The try_ _-_ _out for the_ Wildschütz  _had been a disaster and the one for the_ Vampyr  _followed closely after. I was in no shape to participate, not to mention give a decent performance._

Now that was guaranteed to get Celestino ranting towards the paper while he put his pen down.

Yuuri sighed.

_Work on both the_ Wildschütz _and the_ Vampyr _are coming along well. My German has improved considerably and I have friends who help me when my pronunciation is too Italian to not be noticed, even in a chorus. Regarding the_ Wildschütz, _opening night is in a week and we have daily dress rehearsals. This includes a lot of dancing. In the last weeks we had regular dance lessons with the head of the ballet. It is exhausting, to put it mildly_ _,_ _and Madam Barnosk is quite intimidating. After practise we are all as good as dead. At the very least, it keeps some of our more energetic singers out of off-stage trouble._

_After the_ Vampyr  _we will work on an opera by E.T.A. Hoffmann,_ Undine _. Once again the sujet is rather fantastical and shows a curious amount of romanticism I didn't expect from someone like Mr. Feltsman, especially considering his distaste for his predecessor Richard Wagner. (Speaking of which, I do think you would like Mr. Feltsman very much_ _,_ _if you had a chance to meet him_ _,_ _and I am forever grateful to you for recommending me to him and entrusting me into his care.)_

_Since there are still a few smaller solo parts open on the_ Undine, _I am currently preparing myself for the try-out for these. Right now I am confident that I can hand in a decent performance._

_When this letter arrives in Milan_ _,_ _both the opening night of the_ Wildschütz  _and the tryouts for the_ Undine  _will be thr_ _ough and I hope I can give you good news for both of these._

_In hopes to find you in good health and plenty of work I leave you now._

_With tender greetings,_

_Yuuri Katsuki_

He probably could have written more. Maybe Celestino wanted to know about his life here, how he fared and who his friends were. Maybe Yuuri could tell him about that. But maybe he wasn't interested in that. Maybe now, after a few months , he was glad Yuuri was out of the way and a letter would only annoy him.

Maybe that was the reason Celestino had sent him away after all. Or at least part of it. Yuuri, after all , could not deny that he had improved since he had left Milan, though probably for different reasons than Celestino had anticipated. Celestino could not have known that the theatre housed a baritone in its bowels who was just too happy to tutor self-doubting tenor singers with a penchant for baritone.

With a deep sigh he folded the letter and placed it inside the  _Decamerone._ It was almost time for his lesson with Viktor. No performance for him today, so more lesson time, more improvement, more time with Viktor.

Looking around he snuck through doors, down the stairways to the basement corridors and then through the door to the level before the vaults.

Nobody to see, as per usual , and Yuuri went for the pot behind the dust-covered barrels.

The violin was still there and he squatted there, waiting.

Viktor was one of those things he wanted to tell Celestino about. But the mere fact that Viktor lived under the theatre, in secret on top, was a pretty clear indicator that this was not a topic to elaborate on , so he didn't.

Maybe, if Celestino would ask, he would mention a tutor, but nothing more. At this point, Viktor still was his secret and he would keep it as long as necessary. Which hopefully was for a long time; keeping this secret just felt too sweet, no matter how much sweeter the prospect of sharing Viktor with the world would be.

Later, sometime later For now, he enjoyed their meetings and the wait for them.

He didn't have to wait long today.

Maybe ten minutes after he had arrived and squatted next to the violin case he heard the soft fall of footsteps he associated with Viktor and looked up to find him gazing at him.

“There you are.” Viktor smiled at him, offering him a hand.

Yuri found himself smiling back. “Here I am.” He took the hand and got up, grabbing the violin while he was at it. “What is the program for today?”

“Mainly the _Vampyr_ ,” Viktor answered as he unlocked the door and led Yuuri into darkness. By now the way down was familiar enough that Yuuri could step with care even before Viktor uttered a warning. Probably he wouldn't even need Viktor to hold his hand as they walked, but Yuuri was careful not to mention that. He most definitely did not want to not hold Viktor's hand on these occasions and even less he wanted Viktor to think he didn't want to. “But I think we should start working for the _Undine_ too. That is, if Yuri talked you into participating in the try-out.”

Yuuri chuckled. “He kind of did.”

“He can be quite insistent, I know. If he gets too annoying, please do tell me. I will put him in place.”

“No, it's alright, really.” Yuuri's cheeks grew warmer. “I kind of need this pushing and probing and coaxing. On my own I don't think I ever would participate in any of these things.”

“Why is – oh, careful, we're at the steep part.”

Probably he wouldn't have needed Viktor's arm wrapping itself around his shoulder to not stumble and fall, but Yuuri was definitely not complaining about its presence. If Viktor noticed Yuuri’s secure steps he did not comment on it as well.

“Why is that?” he asked instead, “you should have had several solo roles by now, probably some leads too.”

“Thank you for thinking that way.” Yuuri sighed. “Well, you listened to the try-out for the _Wildschütz_ , didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“That sort of thing happens to me. I don’t even know why. I prepare, I know the songs, but, well. After a while it became some sort of joke in Milan, to bet if I would freeze up this time. Then that grew old and the big question became how long it would take me to freeze up and in the end we didn’t say _when hell freezes over_ , but _when an Oriental gets a solo_. That was the point when it was decided I might fare better elsewhere. Fresh start and all.”

That had come out faster than he had wanted, a staccato of words he wasn’t sure Viktor had understood.

He was just glad it was too dark for Viktor to see his face.

Viktor took his time to translate Yuuri’s comment and Yuuri made a mental note to slow down his Italian a little bit.

“You ever wondered why that is?” he then asked. “You sing perfectly fine when you are in a group of people or when you are alone.”

“Well, when I’m in a group nobody will notice me in particular.” Urgh, one day he would learn not to blurt out the most embarrassing admissions without reflecting on them beforehand. Today, however, was not that day.

“That sort of thing, huh?” Viktor mumbled. “Say, do you miss your friends back home?”

“I miss Milan a bit, yes,” Yuuri admitted. “And my guardian, but I didn’t have any friends to speak of.”

Viktor came to a halt and pulled Yuuri a little closer to him in what almost felt like a hug. “I am sorry to hear that.”

Yuuri’s face grew even hotter. “No, no, it’s alright. I was used to it.”

“That doesn’t make it alright, though,” Viktor argued.

“Maybe not, but it can’t be changed anymore.” Yuuri sighed. “And even with this I was terrified of leaving. Stupid, right?”

“Maybe, but then again, there are many people in the world just as stupid and there are a lot of things that are worse.”

Now Viktor’s touch was turning into a real hug. “How are things now?”

“I think…” Yuuri mulled over it.

“Do you have any friends here?”

Thank goodness, a question he could actually answer. “Some from the chorus.” Most definitely Johannes. With Alexander and Thomas he got along as well, as with Andreas. Though he would not call them friends yet, they were nice and fun to spend time with. With the other singers he had less contact though.

And probably Georgi.

Viktor's head leaned atop of his; he could feel his breath rustling through his hair and down his neck. “Why are you asking?”

“You're not alone in this, that's all.” Viktor now smiled against the crown of his head. “And you are more than a stranger's face to them.”

_And to you?_ Yuuri wanted to ask, yet didn't. Under the given circumstances the answer was kind of obvious anyway.

“Well then,” Viktor said and much to Yuuri's regret he let go of him, “if we don't get down we can't get to work on the _Undine_ and then we can't figure out how to work on the actual problem.”

Well, at least he still held his hand as he let him the last bit to his cavern.

Yuuri watched his shape reappear, defined by slowly growing light.

“Has Yakov said anything about the try-out yet?” Viktor asked while he walked around, carrying light from one corner of the place to another.

“No, not yet, but I think if he had found someone to play the open parts he would have started rehearsing the songs already.”

“Yeah, he isn't one for giving singers a break, I know.”

Yuuri smiled. “He knows when to do so, though. I think I like him.”

Viktor broke into a broad, heart-shaped smile that made Yuuri's chest open up all the more. “Well, he likes people who work hard. Let's get busy then, shall we?”

“Gladly. If we go through the chorus pieces one-by-one?”

“Of course.” Viktor took out his violin from the case and tuned it while Yuuri looked through his music for the introductory song, all the while warming up and stealing a glance at Viktor's sharp, focused profile every now and then.

Viktor looked up, smiling at him. “Well, I'm ready.”

“Play on,” Yuuri chuckled, “maestro, I beg you, play on.”

Viktor's mouth twitched as he took a mocking bow. “Well, if you are begging already, I have no choice, right?” He took up the violin and started to play the intro to the chorus piece. “By the way, no hunching,” he commented while moving his bow.

Yuuri drew up his shoulders, breathed and -

“Ihr Hexen und Geister, Schlingt fröhlich den Reihn, Ihr Hexen und Geister, Bald wird unser Meister Hier unter uns sein!” Yuuri had to sing this one softly, yet with force. The whole chorus in this mode helped create the eerie, otherworldly tone of the song, establishing the vampiric master of the myriad of ghosts, spirits, demons and goblins.

“Softer,” Viktor whispered. “Softer in the first four lines. Carry the tone on your breath. And after that get a bit stronger.” He started again and Yuuri repeated the phrase, softer this time.

“Better. A bit softer still and then you raise your voice to the level of the first try.” He started again.

“Ihr Hexen und Geister, Schlingt fröhlich den Reihn, Ihr Hexen und Geister, Bald wird unser Meister Hier unter uns sein!”

Viktor nodded along while he played. So that was adequate, probably. “Wegen grauser Freveltaten Ward der Boden hier verflucht, Drum wird er von uns gesucht, Dass wir uns auf ihm beraten.” His voice grew a bit firmer now, the tone carrying on his breath stronger and sharper, almost to a low screech. “Lichtscheu in der Mitternacht, Wenn nur Angst und Bosheit wacht, Schleichen wir beim Mondenschein In die finstre Kluft hinein.“

The modulations on his voice went on as he sang through it, returning to the almost ethereal whisper and then back to the hisses and screeches at the end.  “ Eul' und Uhu, ihr sollt schrein,

Kommt und schließt den muntern Reihn! Eul' und Uhu, ihr sollt schrein, Jo, hoho! hoho! joho! hoho! hoho!“

Viktor went on to fiddle a bit more before lowering the bow. “That was good. You practised your modulations?”

Yuuri laughed. “I think I begin to annoy my room mates.”

“It pays off.” He smiled again in that way that made Yuuri's heart jump. “But you need to practise how to breathe a tone.”

Yuuri scratched his neck. “Yes, that is always a bit of a problem with me.”

“It's simple, really. Easiest to control when you hold your fingers to your throat.” With one step he was behind Yuuri and his fingertips rested against Yuuri's pulse. “Like this.”

Yuuri prayed that he didn't notice how his breath fluttered for a moment.

“Now slowly breathe out. When I start humming, pick up the note, softly. Get louder gradually, like this.”

He breathed out, softly, then with a single a. It carried lightly through the air, floating and then grew louder and firmer, before retreating again back into the softness it had held before.

It  _was_ a simple exercise and one that Yuuri had done often, but that didn't mean he was exactly good with it. Breathing a tone was almost annoying in how much trouble he had with it, especially considering how he had a bit less trouble with this when he was actually singing. Well, at least most singers had trouble with that when having to do this mid-song and it took a lot of practise each time.

“You got it?”

Yuuri nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.” Viktor's finger softly brushed over his skin. “Now breathe.”

Yuuri breathed out in a slow, even stream and then listened to Viktor letting out a strong a, clear as water.

He found the tone himself and started softly, very softly letting it flow and float through the air, mingle with Viktor's voice and grow stronger, held it for a moment and then took it back again as Viktor's thumb brush over the side of his throat until the tone disappeared back into his larynx.

“Very good.” Viktor smiled against the back of his head and then his hand was gone, quite to Yuuri's regret.

“The hand on your throat helps you feel the vibration of your voice. You can control it easier that way. Maybe it helps you.”

He stepped away from Yuuri and took up his violin again. “Let's try again, shall we?”

They repeated the exercise with several different notes and Viktor listened to him with a sharp, focused gaze before he suddenly put down the violin.

“Give me a moment, will you – find the next piece to sing.”

“What?” Yuuri watched him rush towards his writing desk and scribble something down in frantic haste.

“It's alright, I just had an idea.” With gusto Viktor threw his pen on the table and returned, fingers stained dark with ink. “Sorry about that, have you picked out the next song?”

“Yes, it's pretty short.” Yuuri held the sheet up for Viktor to take a look at the melody.

“Thank you – ah, frantic search.” Viktor nodded. “If you're good with this I say we jump right into the next part.”

Yuuri sighed. “Anything that makes this thing pass by faster.”

“You don't like the _Vampyr_?”

Yuuri shrugged. “Not really, but well. We got it, I sing it. Play on?”

Viktor played.

And Yuuri sang. “Wo kann sie sein? Wo kann sie sein? Beim Fackelschein durchsucht den Wald,ruft Echo wach, dass tausendfach mit Hörnerschall allüberal die Stimme widerhall'. Janthe! Janthe! - Janthe!“

Apparently he was sufficiently frantic, for Viktor quickly played a bridge to the second chorus piece of the scene.

“Weh! die Vampyrhöhle!“ Yuuri half sang, half screamed in terror. “Schnell hinweg mit leisem Tritt!” Softer, he added in pity, “Armer Vater! Armer Vater! Nur schnell hinweg! Nur schnell hinweg! Nur schnell hinweg mit leisem Tritt!” Again louder he pretended to be looking for a missing virgin, who was about to become the first on-stage victim of the titular vampire. “Wo mag sie sein? Hier ist sie nicht! Ja, hier verlor sich ihre Spur! Ach, armer Vater, armer Vater, armer Vater, Nimmer siehst du Janthen wieder, Hier verlor sich ihre Spur. Drum schnell hinweg mit leisem Tritt, Nur fort von hier, nur fort von hier! Drum schnell hinweg mit leisem Tritt! Nur fort von hier, nur fort von hier, fort mit leisem Tritt!”

“What brave fellows,” Viktor commented dryly. “But that was good. Really good.” He grinned. “You've been working hard.”

Yuuri's neck grew warm. “It's all I can do, right?”

Viktor put his violin away for a moment. “Well, it's all one can do to make the best of what you've got. No amount of natural talent can replace dedication and effort. But why don't you like the opera?”

“It's a bit all over the place with its sujet. We have a conflict between two old friends, we have forbidden love and enforced marriage, we have mystery, we have crime... one or two of these things could have been easily left out and we wouldn't miss anything.” Yuuri shrugged. “I think the conflict between Ruthwen and Aubrey would have been strong enough of a story in itself.”

“Well, what about Malwina then, Aubrey's love interest?” Viktor asked, cocking his head.

“Take the love angle out. They don't have that much chemistry anyways, if you ask me. If you need her as the virgin the vampire covets, she might be Aubrey's sister or his ward or something, pitting platonic love against familial. I always found that a lot more compelling.”

Viktor nodded to his explanations, his face a mask of contemplation.

Yuuri wondered why he had talked so much about something that was way above him. “Well, of course I am not composer,” he quickly added. “Or a librettist, so I shouldn't speak.”

“No, no, these are good points.” Viktor tipped against his nose with his index finger. “It is always good to hear what singers think about the pieces they are to perform and critique is never wrong in general. So you would take out the romance?”

“Yes. There are more compelling themes than two men lusting after the same woman.”

Viktor nodded and muttered something under his breath Yuuri didn't quite catch.

“Well, let's go on then.”

They went through the whole  _Vampyr_ in a blaze. Yuuri had practised these damn songs until he couldn't hear them anymore, all the while considering what Viktor would find lacking in his original performance and working on it. It paid off, Viktor had only minor corrections to make to his singing and – also important – Mr. Feltsman had not complained about him.

“ _Undine_ now?” Viktor asked after Yuuri had finished the last verse for the chorus with a triumphant “Dem Ewigen sei Preis und Dank! Ihm schalle unser Lobgesang!“

“Gladly.” He put the sheet music for the _Vampyr_ aside into his folio and picked out those for the _Undine_.

“You start right away at _Euch segne der_ ,” Viktor said. “Have you sang this one before?”

“Not yet, no.” Yuuri glanced at his sheet music. “I got the lyrics memorised and the melody seems pretty simple.”

“Church-y,” Viktor added.

“Yes, sounds about right. Would you play it to me so I get an idea?”

Viktor laughed and started to play. The melody was indeed quite church-y, a somewhat monotonous choral with only few rises.

Yuuri listened intently.

Viktor repeated the melody one more time. “Give it a go?”

Yuuri nodded and when Viktor started playing , this time he fell in. “Euch segne der, der einzig segnen kann, mit bestem Segen heut' und immerdar und führe froh hinaus, was froh begann! Nun küsst euch beid, ihr seid ein bräutlich Paar!”

“Hm.” Viktor made a bit of a face. “More dignity, please. Steadier singing, you scooped a bit at the beginning of your lines. Again.”

Yuuri repeated the phrase, this time mindful to keep his voice steady and even.

“Better. More joyous gravitas.”

Whatever that was, Yuuri did his best to deliver.

Viktor wasn't content , though , and had him repeat the damn phrase over and over again.

“No complaining, I'm much kinder than Yakov is with soloists. But that was better. One last time, then we move on to your parts in the sextet. We will rehearse only your part until you're secure and can sing it in combination with the others.”

Yuuri was not sure whether he was supposed to look forward to that. Again Viktor played the melody on his violin two times for Yuuri to memorize before he sang, this time longer and signaling him which parts were his to sing.

“Think you can do it if I take some of the other parts?” he then asked.

“I think, yes.” Yuuri frowned. “Why is Heilmann a baritone anyways? His general role as a priest would suggest a bass, right, being elderly and wise and of authority. And the sheet music looks like bass too, but you play it all three keys higher, so we can practise it in baritone.”

“Yes, it is a bass role,” Viktor admitted, “but Yakov likes to switch things up from time to time. Especially when there are not too many bass singers to go around. And back then when he did it first, he thought it a nice idea that both emotional cornerstones for Undine would be baritones, especially since they're friends, and her authority figures would be bass.”

Yuuri nodded.

“He also wanted to stage Lortzing's _Undine_ and arrange it so that Heilmann and the Fisherman would be one person – a protestant pastor. Another bass less to get your hands on. Never came to pass though. Which I still regret, he had joked that I would sing the Undine in that production.”

Imagining a young Viktor in this role was far easier than it probably should have been, but his pale hair and the way his voice carried the words made him a rather convincing water sprite. Add to this a youthful, boyish soprano and the picture was perfect.

“I would probably pay money to work on that too with you,” he sighed. “Preferably not in the role who abandons and betrays you though.”

Viktor looked at him as if he had been slapped and kissed at the same time. It was a nice look on him, Yuuri decided. A very nice look, indeed. Hopefully he would get to see it a bit more often.

He recovered quickly though, smiling again. “That's the spirit. Shall we continue?”

Yuuri nodded. “Oh, yes.”

Viktor took up his violin again and started to play a lead-in.

“Halt and Lieb' und Treue fest du liebend Paar.” Yuuri made sure that his voice was firm this time. No scooping. “Macht ja Lieb und Treue alles Hoffen wahr.”

“Menschenvolk närrisches!” Viktor thundered suddenly in the role of the mighty (and not at all human-liking) water spirit Kühleborn, “Trügerisches, herrisches Tolles Geschlecht! Freust dich wohl recht!”

“Wehe, was wanket, was rauschet am Fenster!”, Yuuri exclaimed and hinted at making a cross for good measure. “Weichet von hinnen, ihr nächtgen Gespenster!” These four lines were sung by Heilmann, Undine, Huldbrandt and Undine's parents, leading to another short solo for Heilmann. Exhaustion, Yuuri recalled, he had to convey exhaustion and residue terror. “Führt mich zur Lagerstätte, mich schwindelt's hier und grausts.”

“Euch ziemt die beste Stätte solang ihr bei uns haust!” Viktor sang the part of the fisherman and his wife, to switch back to Kühleborns “Tolles Geschlecht, freust dich wohl recht?”

He then fiddled a short melody that was a duet between Undine and her new husband.

Yuuri listened intently until Viktor gave him a nod.

“Hin fließt euer Leben nun in Lieb und Treu,” he went on, his voice positively melting, “Freudig höh'res Leben glüht euch süß und neu.”

He listened after the last note and watched as Viktor nodded. “Yes, you will make a very good Heilmann. You were still scooping at  _Führt mich zur Lagerstätte_ , though, let's work on that.”

No break then.

Heilmann wasn't a role with too any long parts, which was probably why Mr. Feltsmann wanted it to go to someone new. It was a perfect piece for a new soloist to try himself and find his footing.

“Told you I would enjoy tutoring you,” Viktor smiled, just as Yuuri had to call quits for today. His throat started to feel quite dry. “Some tea?”

“Oh yes, please.” He sat and watched as Viktor busied himself with a kettle over the fire.

Today’s attire consisted of a purple toga over a black shirt and again loose, striped trousers. These seemed to be a favourite of his, for whatever reason.

His long hair was pinned up with a brass clasp, only leaving some strands free to fall over the left side of his face as he spooned some herbs in a plain blue teapot.

“Say,” he asked as the water in the kettle came to a boil, “can I ask you a favor?”

“Sure.” Yuuri, about to grab two mugs from the cabinet, paused for a moment. “That is, ask and I shall see what I can do.”

“Thank you.” Viktor carefully carried the kettle to the table and poured the steaming water into the pot.

Yuuri let the scent of chamomile and lavender wash over his face.

“You talk to Yuri sometimes, right?”

“Occasionally,” Yuuri admitted. “Sometimes he even manages not to try and stab me with his stare.”

“I knew it. He likes you, great. He could do with some socialising.”

Yuuri suspected that Plisetsky thought quite different about that matter but he was careful not to comment on it.

“Which of course means that I do hope you like him as well.”

“He can be quite nice in his own way,” Yuuri chuckled. “What about him?”

“I’m worried.” Viktor poured them their tea. “You know there was some trouble a few months back, right?”

“In March?” Yuuri nodded. “Yes. What was it about?”

“Politics, mostly. People want a democracy, getting rid of the king, people want a unified Germany, preferably without too much monarchy, people want a unified Germany under a monarchy. There was a lot going on but that were the main factors. The uprisings were dealt with quite brutally, I guess. Down here it’s not so easy to get a clear picture.”

“Well, if some important officials had to flee it had to be bad,” Yuuri commented.

“Wagner?” Viktor spat that name out. “Yes and good riddance.” He sighed. “Thing is, Yuri got rather invested. Enthusiastic even. Yakov could keep him from getting involved, but…” He shrugged. “And just because they failed once that doesn’t mean they’re off and out and…”

“You want me to have an eye on him?” Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “That would require him to actively enjoy my company.”

“Well, he does. And once you worked together on the _Undine_ you will have an easier time talking to him.”

“Why don’t you talk to him yourself?” Yuuri asked. “Unlike me you are not almost completely a stranger. He might listen to you.”

Viktor laughed. “Doubtful. He doesn’t listen to people who punch his idols.”

“Mr. Wagner?”

Viktor took a sip of tea, a smile of grim pride on his lips. “The very same.”

“Ah, yes, he mentioned something like that.” Yuuri took a close look at him. “You don’t strike me the violent type, though.”

“My, my, I hope so.” Viktor sighed. “He made me angry.”

Yuuri would have liked to know how that could have happened. Maybe he should ask. Or maybe not, maybe this was none of his business.

“He said something disgusting about Yuri.”

Well, apparently sometimes he didn’t have to ask if the person he was talking to needed to get something off his chest.

“What was it?”

Viktor bit his lip. “That he should try and get a patron by virtue of his face, since his voice was unlikely to do the trick.” His face twitched and twisted in what was still very strong anger.

“Oh.”

“Yuri was twelve back then.”

Yuuri’s stomach sank. For a moment the tea tasted rather much like bile. “Well, not that I am advocating rash and violent action,” he mumbled, “but relatable. You ever told Plisetsky about it?”

“I tried. He claimed I was jealous of that old fart. Again, he was twelve. Not exactly a rational age.” Viktor made a face. “Wagner got off lightly. After my punch he grabbed a bottle and hit me over the head with it. Of course I was to blame since I started it.” He brushed his hair back, allowing Yuuri to take a close look.

The left side of his brow was covered in a net of angry, raised lines that varied from an aggressive red to a sick, almost grey blue-purple that cut into the arched line of Viktor’s eyebrow.

The eye beneath it was of the same watery blue as the left one, but Yuuri noticed that it had no focus.

“Really doesn’t look good,” he agreed.

He lifted his hand, and Viktor didn't react at first, but he flinched away under his fingertips.

“Oh.” Yuuri curled his fingers into a loose fist. “Sorry.”

“You surprised me.” Still, Viktor was very quick to shake his hair back into place and then turned this side away from him. “I didn't see you coming from the left.”

“You're blind there.”

“Yes.” Viktor’s fingers softly tapped on the desk. “Bad fall after the bottle.”

Yuuri should not have reached out. “Sorry,” he repeated and Viktor shrugged in a display of nonchalance.

Yuuri watched him, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched, the anxious line around his mouth.

“Say…” he said slowly, still looking for the proper words, “this isn’t the reason you’re down here, right?”

It would have been rather extreme, but considering what he had seen and learned of Viktor so far this wasn't exactly something he would have put above him.

“Oh please, really?”

“Well, you combed your hair over it.”

“It doesn't look pretty, admittedly. Didn't heal up too well. But Yuuri, please.”

“Alright.” Yuuri sighed. “The colouring is unhealthy, you should take care for it to properly finish healing up. Does it itch?”

“Sometimes.”

“It might get better when it heals up and fades a bit. Other than that...” Yuuri considered him. “It looks quite daring. Goes well with your trousers.”

Viktor blinked at him and then laughed. “Well, that’s one way of putting it. But again, if you’re wondering, I do not live down here because I think my partially scarred and still very recognizable and otherwise handsome face is too hideous for the world to see.”

“If you ever claim that I personally drag you to the next mirror and have you take a look at yourself,” Yuuri declared and in the next moment cursed his mouth.

Viktor ran a hand through his hair and then let it fall back over his eye, covering the scars completely. “Please, do in that case. Yuri likes to claim that my sense of reality can be a bit messy when it suits me. No idea what he means with that.”

“I will.” Yuuri took a sip of his tea. “So, you sang Huldbrandt once?”

“Yes. Was one of my first solo roles and the poor woman who played Undine had to carry me through this.” He laughed. “I was so nervous, half of the time I forgot my cues and she had to stomp on my foot and hiss them to me. Yakov was ready to kill me when we had the last dress rehearsal.”

Yuuri chuckled. “Well, he seems to be constantly ready to rip someone's lungs out for not holding a tune.” He flexed his fingers. “Let's just hope this won't happen to me.”

“I'm sure it won't.” Viktor's hand moved over the table and came to rest next to Yuuri's. “And even if it does, it's not the end of the world. You are never alone on stage. There are people relying on you and there are people you can rely on.”

“A comforting concept,” Yuuri confessed, “And a bit hard to grasp for me.” He curled his fingers and then spread them again. “I might need an occasional reminder of the fact.”

Now Viktor's fingers leaned against his, radiating warmth against his skin. “I think I can take care of that.”

 

The opening night for the  _Wildschütz_ came and with it yet another day of rain (unfortunate since they all were under orders to come in their best clothes) and a flare-up of nerves all around that made Yuuri glad that apparently opening night meant that there was no rehearsal earlier on the day. Rehearsal would not have done any of them any good.

Yuuri arrived a bit late, having shared an umbrella with Georgi , and was in a hurry to get into costume before Mr. Feltsman could yell at him.

There was no sign of Viktor and Yuuri had no time looking or waiting for him as he hurried to the backstage area and it was slightly unnerving.

The scenery he came upon did not much to calm his nerves.

Sara Crispino temporarily had transformed from a graceful swan to a headless duck, muttering while bustling herself all over the place. Mila Babitch had retreated into a dark corner, babbling her lines , and the singers for the Count and the Baron where nowhere to be found, causing Mr. Feltsman to stomp all over the place, cursing and cussing about freelance singers and their unreliability.

The ballet dancers were scattered all over the place, stretching, warming up, fixing some last detail on their costumes and covering their own fluttering nerves with increasingly unconvincing shows of haughtiness.

Their Baculus, Johannes Erhardt, appeared to be a lone rock of calm and reason, trying his best to calm The Crispino (and got snapped at for his efforts) and assist The Babitch with her lines (who almost broke down in tears).

Finally, when the much detested freelance singers came strolling in (utterly unimpressed by Mr. Feltsman) and disappeared in their designated dressing rooms , Mr. Feltsman calmed down and turned to them. “You all! Next week we will hold try-out for Hoffmann’s  _Undine_ .” His accent was even thicker than usual. He must be really annoyed. “Not many roles. Both baritone. If you want part, partake.” He glared around and Yuuri felt with unease how his gaze lingered very long on him.

“Better you than _any_ not in house!” Mr. Feltsman continued and then took a deep breath. When he continued, his accent had stabilized and was back to its regular level. “You all are not bad. You are good enough for here and most of you can do a lot better.”

“Must really hate them,” Johannes muttered and Andreas and Thomas chuckled in agreement.

Mr. Feltsman shot them a sharp look and they fell silent again. “Anyways,” he continued, “You lot go out and do what you're here for! Give them a good night!” He looked around and then knocked three times against the next wooden beam. “Break a leg.”

With that they were dismissed to take their positions, the last chance for a drink or some final deep breath. Yuuri took the chance to tell himself that he would be alright. He was not alone on stage. He was in the chorus. He was not alone. And even if he had no chance to talk to Viktor, he knew that he would be listening from somewhere. But still, talking to him would have eased his mind significantly.

Andreas nudged Yuuri with his elbow. “Oh, look who's come to wish us good luck.”

Looking up Yuuri saw Plisetsky leaning against a post, glaring at him.

“We're truly blessed, huh?” he commented.

“Oi, Katsuki!”

“And you are the most blessed of us all, it seems,” Johannes commented.

“Apparently. Better I go and receive my blessings then. I'll be back in a minute.” He waved and then hurried over to Plisetsky.

“You're not performing tonight, are you?”

“Hell, no.” Plisetsky shrugged. “Viktor's here. You haven't had a chance to talk today, right?”

“I came in a bit late, yes.” Yuuri scratched his neck. “Sorry.”

“Eh. Come now, hurry.” He waved and Yuuri followed him down a corridor.

The bustle of a performance was already centred to the backstage area and the ceiling; here it was quiet.

Viktor stood in a shadowed nook, waiting for them and pressing deeper into the shadow at first, before he recognized them and came back out. “There you are.”

Yuuri took his hand. “Sorry. I was late and I had no idea where you might be and...”

Viktor pulled him closer to him. “Nervous?” he asked, a smile in his voice.

“A bit, yes. Opening night and all.” Yet Yuuri's nerves had stopped fluttering. “I think I am all right, though.”

“Glad to hear that.” Viktor's fingers smoothed over the back of Yuuri's hand. “Turn around?”

Yuuri did and felt Viktor's hand on his shoulders. The touch was accompanied by some tongue-clucking. “Really, I'm serious about the corset.” With that he pulled Yuuri's shoulders back up and then wrapped his arms around him for a hug.

Yuuri chuckled, leaning his brow against Viktor's cheek. “I believe you when you whip one out and lace me up.”

“Blergh,” Plisetsky commented. “I think you should get back now and warm up, by the way, before I need to vomit.”

“Are you listening to the performance too?”

Plisetsky shrugged. “Well,  _someone_ has to keep this idiot company and it’s not like I got anything better to do anyways.”

Viktor let go of him, hands slowly, reluctantly gliding away from Yuuri’s arms. “He’s right, though, you should go. Break a leg.”

“Thank you.” Yuuri took a deep breath. “I’ll be off then.”

“Yeah, break a leg,” Plisetsky muttered as Yuuri rushed back to the chorus.

He was met by some curious glances, but given the fact that they all had to start warming up now, he was spared some awkward questions.

“Position!” Mr. Feltsman finally hissed. “All of you!”

The ballet girls ushered on to their position, each pairing up with a chorus singer.

Yuuri nodded a greeting to his dance partner and she shot him a nervous, haughty-facade-cracking smile. “Step on my feet.”

“Break a leg,” he answered.

It would be alright.

The curtain rose.

The music swelled.

And the show started.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1st) Hoffmann's "Undine" needs way more love. It's wonderful. (And Hoffmann had a thing for idiot men getting bitten in the ass by their own stupidity)  
> 2) As always. Thegrimshapeofyoursmile is to blame. I mean, I ponder killing off a side character later on and she begs and pleads for him to live – and thus I let him live and give him a pregnant sister and a wealthy patron to move to the countryside with soon.  
> I ponder blinding Viktor on one side and finish the pondering with “lol no, too much drama even for him” and she is all “YES DO IT DO IT DO IT!!!!!!”  
> … then again, I gave her the idea for some plot developments in her own history AU, so I guess we're even. (did I mention she has an Imperial Russia AU story going? I mentioned it now. Please go read it.)  
> 3) Also, next chapter will feature some Phichit and waaaaaay too much alcohol.
> 
> 4) Most importantly: Thank you all for dropping in again and reading and... did I mention that I love you guys?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alcohol and tragic and annoying misunderstandings TM happen.   
> Also Phichit.

Chapter 08

 

Of course it went well. Madame Barnosk complained about their dancing , but it was her job to complain about their dancing and demand perfection, just as it was Mr. Feltsman’s unholy duty to have them sweat blood in order to achieve as much greatness as possible, not being content with anything less.

They were singers, not dancers. They could live with Madame Barnosk bemoaning their “ape-like” movements. They could live with it, especially since Mr. Feltsman’s verdict for the night was a grumbled , “Heard worse. We go over it next rehearsal.”

Mila Babitch couldn’t stop hugging Sara Crispino as they wandered off to their dressing rooms, laughing and chatting on and on.

“You all, get presentable!” Mr. Feltsman growled. “Opening night. You all meet patrons. All! Have fun! No rehearsal tomorrow so you show yourselves and have fun! Behave!”

Most of the ballet girls grumbled in exhausted discontent. They were tired and covered in sweat and would have much preferred to go home, wash up and have some sleep.

Madame Barnosk shot them a look and the soft protest ceased while the girls headed to their dressing room.

Yuuri’s stomach, still relaxed and untroubled, knotted again. He turned to Johannes in alarm. “Please tell me I can stick with you and Mrs. Eleonora until we are allowed to leave.”

Johannes smiled at him in sympathy. “Not good with people?”

“Yes.” Yuuri gestured to his face. “Yuuri Katsuki, that Oriental from Milan who has trouble singing on-stage and prefers not to talk to strangers? Remember him? I certainly do.”

“Get dressed!” Mr. Feltsman bellowed, “Now!”

“You didn’t have much trouble getting along with us, though,” Andreas commented as they hurried to the dressing room.

“Yes, because you took me drinking.” Yuuri rubbed his brow, smearing the stage make-up a bit as the door closed behind them. “Even alcohol that tastes like horse piss can help me deal with strangers until they are no longer strangers.”

Johannes shook his head while he threw off his costume and then grabbed a wet linen towel to scrub his face clean. “How did you manage to even get yourself a girlfriend?”

Yuuri rubbed his face until he felt like his skin was coming off. “Honestly, there is no day when I don’t ask myself the same question.”

“Was she here today?” Alexander asked, “are we finally going to see her?”

Buttoning up his shirt gave Yuuri a reason to gaze downwards. “Well, no, sorry, she wasn't.”

Considering how his ominous girlfriend didn't even exist, this wasn't even a lie. He maybe should consider a conveniently scheduled break - up before this got out of hand.

“Aw, on opening night, what kind of girl is she?” Thomas complained, “Dump her, I tell you. Not worth it.”

“Well, sorry if she doesn't get so many evenings off,” Yuuri grumbled, hopefully convincingly enough.

“Bah,” August mumbled from his corner. “If that tallow candle got a woman I'll eat my hat.”

Yuuri held still as Johannes helped him with his tie.

They exchanged a long, uncomfortable glance while Alexander slowly, very slowly asked,

“Care to elaborate?” With even more deliberation he added, “Dear boy?”

“All I'm saying is, that no proper German woman would let him near her. Then again, down in Cotta there are some gypsies right now. In that case, good for him to get some action.”

Yuuri forced himself to smile. “How kind of you to be so concerned about my personal life. I am very touched.”

August huffed. “So, how much do you pay her?”

From Johannes came an angry, “What...”

“Don't know,” Yuuri shrugged while he busied his hands with Johannes' tie, “How much do you pay your wife to put up with you?”

Steps came closer and Yuuri braced himself for a fist.

It never came to that. Andreas stepped in, grabbing August's arm. “That's quite enough. Mr. Feltsman will be waiting for us. We should go.” Still holding August by his arm, he now grabbed his neck as well, dragging him out.

Johannes peered after them and then looked to Yuuri. “Don't listen to him, you hear me?”

“I never do. Listen to this, I mean.” Yuuri finished his work on the tie and grabbed a comb, wetted it in a bowl of water and worked on his hair. “Most of the time stuff like that is background noise. At some point you learn to ignore it.” Having finished licking his hair back he put his glasses back on and handed the comb to Johannes.

Johannes' eyes widened and then narrowed, as if he had just bitten down on something spoiled. “But that's horrible.” He still took the comb and set to work on his hair.

“Yes, it is, I guess.” Yuuri shrugged. “More exhausting than horrible, though. I wonder what got August into saying something now of all times, though. I've been here for two months now, he could have been an ass from the start.” Maybe if he had, Yuuri would have given up and left. That was not a nice thought.

“Who knows. Maybe he needed this long to come up with something.” Johannes chuckled, albeit a bit forcefully. “We know he's not the sharpest tool in the shed.”

“No, he isn't,” Yuuri agreed as they headed off after the others.

The foyer of the theatre was packed with people, mostly the regular patrons of the house who held subscriptions to the expensive, velvet-and-gilt decorated boxes and some lucky bourgeois fellows who had snatched tickets for the gala or had gotten one by virtue of supporting one of the artists.

Yuuri's eyes hurt a little from all the shimmering, flickering silk and satin of the gowns in the candlelight and found only some short reprieve in the sight of a few man servants (probably private employees of the management) in dark green livery, carrying trays of alcoholic beverages, occasionally actively offering them to guests, occasionally having them just snatched away.

Johannes peered around and discovered his patron, amiably chatting with a petite, blonde lady that Yuuri recognized vaguely as someone Johannes occasionally went to lunch in town with. Potentially another patron.

“Ah, good, they're both here already.” Johannes sighed in relief. “Let's go and get social, will we?” He shot Yuuri a smile.

“I would rather we didn't, but since I asked you to let me ride your coattails, I have hardly any say in this, right?” Yuuri sighed.

Johannes nodded and his smile widened. “Exactly. If it's any comfort to you, there's alcohol.”

“We talked about this. German alcohol is awful. Beer is horrible. And I have yet to drink wine from here that is good for more that maybe cooking with it.”

“Sparkling wine,” Johannes cheered, snatching two champagne bowls from a tray being carried past them and handed them to Yuuri before taking another two.

Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “You drink something French? Who are you and what have you done to my friend? What are your demands for his release?”

“You, my dear, poor, uneducated non-Saxonian friend, are sadly mistaken. Those fops are not the only ones who can make something nice.”

They had reached the two ladies Johannes was both obligated and very happy to lavish his attention on and Mrs. Eleonora greeted him with delight. “Oh, dear, it was a lovely evening – oh my, thank you!”, she chirped as he offered her one of the champagne glasses, while the other went straight to the blonde lady.

“Yuuri, you know Mrs. Eleonora Awesfeld,” Johannes smiled, taking one of the glasses Yuuri had held onto.

“Not yet as intimately as I would like,” Mrs. Eleonora smiled. Yuuri longed for the floor to open up and swallow him or, in lieu of that, for the moment when it would be acceptable for him to down his drink in one gulp. Potentially awful taste or not, at least alcohol made this sort of situation bearable. “But then again, I think he wouldn't have much interest right now?”

Yuuri looked for his tongue and found it again. Good. “Only in intimate and pleasant conversation, which we can have as much as you desire, Mrs. Awesfeld.”

She chuckled. “Well, since she will be in town for a bit, let me and dear Johannes introduce you to the Free Lady Martina Poellchau of Salzburg. Dear, we told you about Mr. Katsuki?”

The lady in question raised her glass to him, smiling up a knife. “Indeed. And my, he is handsome.”

Was Yuuri now allowed to down his glass? Nobody was raising theirs though, so probably not. Damn it. “Pleasure is all mine,” he mumbled.

“Oh dear,” the Free Lady chuckled, “if you call being introduced to a woman a pleasure you clearly haven’t lived.”

Why was Johannes doing this to him? Why was he chuckling along with Mrs. Eleonora?

Also how was he supposed to answer to that?

“Yuuri hails from Milan,” Johannes finally said in a display of mercy. “I am sure if he hasn’t lived this sort of life itself he bore witness to enough of it to form his own opinion on whether it was his or not.”

“And what was your verdict, Mr. Kahtzukki? “

“That I am a better singer than lover, I am afraid.”

“Which has me pitying his poor ladylove,” Mrs. Eleonora commented.

Oh. Right. He was supposedly very happily involved with a young woman.

“Well, there's always a thing or two one can be taught,” Lady Poellchau purred and again

Yuuri prayed for a swift and painless death.

“So far my serenading has been pleasant enough,” he mumbled, “and at this point I would find it unseemly to entertain her in any way I in theory could not commit to in public and broad daylight.”

Mrs. Eleonora smiled in what looked like pleasant surprise. “A lovely sentiment. Far too rare in these days. To decency.”

“To decency,” Johannes agreed, raising his glass.

“To decency then, I suppose,” Lady Poellchau sighed not without disappointment.

Yuuri mumbled some affirmation and then, finally, he could drink.

The German champagne was dry as dust and tickled on his tongue; he had to restrain himself from downing the whole glass in one go. It really didn't taste all that bad and he gave his glass an appreciative look.

Johannes smirked. “Told you it is good.”

“Yes, it is.” Yuuri let his gaze wander through the room and paused for a moment when he caught sight of Plisetsky. The boy stood next to Mr. Feltsman and one rather slender, slight man with pitch-black hair and the smooth, polished-bronze skin of a wealthy Siamese.

His dark eyes sparkled as he talked excitedly to Plisetsky and Mr. Feltsman.

Mr. Feltsman nodded and then said something that had Plisetsky pull a face. Then he nodded and he and the Siamese walked through the room.

It took Yuuri a moment to realize that they were walking towards him.

And indeed, they came to a halt before them.

“Mr. Katsuki, hello.”

Yuuri blinked. What? Yuri Plisetsky addressed him in a polite, civilized manner? What was wrong with him?

“Uh. Hello. Uh...”

Mrs. Eleonora looked at him sharply.

Ah, yes, right. Plisetsky had addressed him first, he had some work to do.

“Mr. Plisetsky, Mr. ...” He looked at the Siamese, as if his name might appear over his head.

“Chula,” he helped out, making a bow that was at once playful and sincere.

“Free Lady Martina Poellchau, Mrs. Eleonora Awesfeld, both avid patrons of the theatre. And my friend and fellow singer Johannes Johnberg.”

“How fine to finally get a chance to talk to you,” Mrs. Eleonora smiled.

“I think we haven't had yet the pleasure to meet,” Plisetsky said and oh, it was actually quite delightful to see watch him squirm about as he was forced to behave like a decent, well-raised person. “Mr. Katuski, I would like you to meet Mr. Phichit Chula.” Yes, indeed, he could sound absurdly polite and kind and it was at once hilarious and just utterly wrong.

“How pleasant!” Mr. Chula chirped; he had a somewhat high voice, with a soft, sandy lilt in it, befitting his friendly face. “I haven't seen you in a solo tonight, but then again, I have to admit that I didn't stay awake for much of your performance. Please, forgive me. Mr. Plisetsky, say that you will forgive me.”

“I wasn't even on stage tonight, you have no need to apologize to me,” Plisetsky sighed.

“We are in the chorus,” Yuuri explained, quickly. “No grand solo roles.”

“Yet,” Johannes added.

Mr. Chula smiled toothily. “That is a good mindset. I am looking forward to hear you in a solo in the future. And you, Mr. Katsuki?”

Oh. He pronounced his name properly, what a pleasant surprise.

“I...” He shrugged. “I am doing my best, I work hard and I hope it might pay off in time.” He dearly wished Plisetsky would stop glaring daggers at him.

Mrs. Eleonora smiled at Plisetsky. “We were missing you on stage tonight. You would have been lovely for the Baron of Kronenthal.”

Plisetsky’s face twitched an Yuuri already expected him to throw a fit, considering the vitriol he held for the Wildschütz.

He indeed had to take a deep breath before he could answer. “I preferred to fully focus on the Tamino, without distractions.”

“It paid off,” the Free Lady Poellchau remarked. “you were marvellous. But say, was it just my imagination or was Papageno a little bit uninterested in his Papagena?”

“I fear not.” Now Plisetsky made a face.

Mr. Chula turned to Yuuri again. “I have been here for almost an hour, but I have yet to find out where I can have something to drink.”

Yuuri wondered if that was acceptable and glanced to Johannes.

He nodded slightly and Yuuri breathed in and out.

“Of course,” he then said, “I think I could do with something as well.”

“Lead the way, then,” Mr. Chula chirped, smiling even brighter.

Together they walked around, looking for something to drink and Yuuri finally asking:

“Have you been long in Saxony, Mr. Chula?”

“Please, call me Phichit. The European naming fashion is very strange to me.”

“Phichit then.”

The young man smiled again. “Thank you so much – we don't have this family name thing in Thai regions. Chula is my father's name and for my stay here will serve as something like a family name.” He shook his head. “It is funny, right? Just Phichit is perfectly fine in Bangkok or any Thai place and there are so many other men with my name. I don't see why it should not work the same way here, but if it makes them happy, I will be Phichit Chula for a bit longer, as I have been for the last two years.” His German was fast-paced and carried in a slightly nasal up and down that was quite entertaining to listen to.

“Two years? You have been here for the uprisings then?” Yuuri asked.

“Oh dear, no.” Phichit shook his head as they finally reached a servant carrying champagne.

They each grabbed a glass.

“No, I was in England at that point. I have just returned for Dresden and I am very glad to have missed the action. I hear it was not pretty and such things are not good for business. See, my father has established trade relations to several German countries, France and England and sent me over to Europe so that I may take stock of our relations, evaluate them and get deeper insights in both our family business and the mental constitution of our European partners. He considers it a necessary part of my education.” His tone was light and cheerful, but his eyebrow twitched as he twirled the champagne glass in his long fingers.

“You don't share that sentiment, I take?” Yuuri asked.

“Well, I have learned a lot during these last few years.” Phichit shrugged. “Mainly that I hope we won't accept any trading settlements from England or France in any Thai land unless we wish to share the fate of our neighbours. People from German countries however might be welcome. They are too small and split up to think of themselves as rulers of the world and probably won't try to make us servants in our own house. This makes trading with them easier.” He raised his glass to Yuuri. “To the German countries.”

“To the German countries,” Yuuri agreed and took a sip of champagne, letting the tickle rise into his nose before he swallowed. Oh yes, this was good.

“How long have you been here?” Phichit asked now.

“Two months, almost. I arrived in early May.”

“Ah. To be honest, I was glad to see another Asian here among all the Westerners, but I was told you do not actually hail from Japan?”

Their glasses were empty and replaced by new ones.

“I was born in Japan,” Yuuri nodded, taking a sip while pondering how to skim over the details of his birth place, “but I lived in Italy for most of my life, first Naples, then Rome and finally Milan.” Another sip, but his throat strangely enough remained dry.

The bad thing about champagne was that one could drink it quite quickly, generally speaking. The bad thing about champagne glasses was that they did not hold very much of champagne and thus required constant replenishing. Then again, by now the drink was getting to his head. Maybe he should take it a bit slower? But it did taste too good and his stomach actually had calmed down considerably by now.

“So, you have been singing for two months here, on what position?”

“Uh, I am a tenor,” Yuuri answered.

“I suppose your musical director is quite harsh on you. He made a rather stern impression on me,” Phichit remarked, letting his gaze wander through the room on the lookout for their conversation topic.

This Yuuri was more comfortable talking about and he managed a relaxed shrug. “He is, but he has to be if he wants to get good singers out of his chorus.”

Mr. Feltsman wandered around, talking to a few people for a bit, one of them jotting down notes, before wandering off to the next person.

“And he gets us to work hard, so we all are...” He had forgotten where he was going with this. Anyways, Mr. Feltsman was a good director and nobody should ever dare believing otherwise, nobody, no, no, nobody ever.

“How is practise going, though?” Phichit asked. “Do you all practise together or do you work on your own as well?”

“We rehearse every day.” Yuuri took another sip and then a moment to find the words he needed. “And yes, I work outside of that too.”

“Oh, you have a tutor, marvellous!” Phichit exclaimed. “How much do you have to pay him, though? If it's not too impudent of me to ask.”

It probably was, but Yuuri was not sober enough anymore to care.

“Oh, oh...” Yuuri quickly took another sip of champagne. Yes he had a tutor, the question was what he was to pay him for his tutoring. He had no idea. “Well...” Damn, now his head was fuzzy and his mouth was dry. What a lovely combination. He quickly took another sip of champagne. “Well, we agreed to talk about reimbursement when his tutelage pays off.”

“A generous arrangement indeed. It speaks to the faith your tutor has in your abilities,” Phichit commented. “If you allow, I would like to meet him some time when I am in Dresden.”

“You won't stay here?” Yuuri asked.

Damnit, the glass was empty again. Why did that happen so quickly all the time?

“Not always, my travels also bring me to Leipzig, Hamburg, Kiel and sometimes Cologne or Munich, not to mention France and England.” Phichit procured new, full glasses and handed one to Yuuri. “As I said, I am supposed to look after our trading relations, so I am travelling a lot.” He smiled. “In comparison to these places, Dresden is wonderfully cosy. I almost feel like I am on holiday.”

Yuuri raised his glass. “Then hopefully you can enjoy your holidays here.”

“I think I will.” Phichit smiled and drank.

Doing likewise, Yuuri spotted Plisetsky, who looked incredibly dour as he made his way to him. Again. This was the third time today, Yuuri was wondering why the boy had it in for him so much. Also, his head was starting to spin a bit.

Alas, his glass was empty again, so he was more or less obliged to put it away when the boy approached him. “I take you are having a good time?” he asked, sounding somewhat polite.

“Very good, yes, thank you.” Phichit's smile was as bright as ever. “I just told Mr. Katsuki how much I enjoy every time I am in Dresden. The people here are so friendly and open.” He managed to procure another few glasses of champagne and handed one to Plisetsky.

“Yes, I am sure they are. How long will you stay this time?”

“Probably for two weeks.” Phichit sighed. “After that Leipzig calls and then Cologne. I hope to have a chance to get back here after that. It is too bad that I missed your last few roles, Yuri, I would like to hear you again.”

“Well, you only have to be here for a performance, then you will. Mr. Katsuki?”

Yuuri blinked at him. “Uh. Yes?”

“You are good? You don't seem too well.”

“No, no, no, no... no I am. Good. I am good.”

Plisetsky raised an eyebrow at him and Yuuri tried to nod for emphasis. Yes, he was alright, really.

Only, that his head was really fuzzy by now.

Plisetsky sighed. “Mr. Chula, I think I need to abduct Mr. Katsuki for a moment. If you would excuse us.” He reached out and grabbed Yuuri's arm, hard enough that he lost a bit of his balance and had to hold on to Plisetsky, in order to not fall.

“You need fresh air,” Plisetsky commented dryly. “And a break from the champagne.” He himself downed his glass quickly, then nodded a goodbye to Phichit and then dragged him away, a hand on his back so they might look inconspicuous.

“Hey...” Yuuri protested, even though Plisetsky didn't need much effort to have him go along. “Hey, whassa matter?!”

“You're drunk. Too much champagne.”

“Not drunk,” Yuuri protested. He was, in fact, drunk. Damnit.

“I have no idea how much you talk when you're drunk but you've been quite chatty with the Siamese.” Plisetsky nodded towards a few patrons of the theatre, but pushed on nonetheless, leading Yuuri away from the people and into the corridors of the backstage area and down, down, down to the cellars. “And also Viktor will be moping if he doesn't get a chance to congratulate you on an opening night gone well.”

Viktor. Yes, Viktor was good. Yuuri most definitely wanted to be with Viktor right now. Being with Viktor was definitely preferable to being surrounded by people he didn't know and drinking in order to get through the evening. He let Plisetsky lead him to the basement and the cellars and then into the darkness, even though the darkness made his head light and spinning and stars dancing in front of his eyes.

“Careful,” Plisetsky grumbled as the ground got steep. “If you hit your head and throw up over me, I bite your face off.”

Yuuri wasn't sober enough to question how he would do that. He just was glad that Plisetsky didn't let him fall, especially considering how his movements were starting to deteriorate a bit into stumbling.

Plisetsky groaned and it sounded like, “Why me?”, even through the champagne fog clouding Yuuri's mind.

Yuuri followed him until the lights appeared, dancing in front of his eyes, candles flickering, and then he saw Viktor rising from his desk.

“Yuri,” he called, “shouldn't you still be up there – oh dear.”

“Urgh,” Plisetsky groaned. “There, he's all yours or whatever!” He pushed and Yuuri walked forward, stumbled and fell and Viktor caught him and held him.

“Well, well, that's a surprise,” he laughed into Yuuri's ear.

“'llo, Viktor.”

“Drunk as an owl,” Plisetsky commented. “Thought he'd better off here. Don't think he would have made it back to his place, so – here you go, I guess.”

“Thank you, Yura.” Viktor's arm slung itself around Yuuri's hip and steadied him. “I think I can take it from here.”

“He looks quite out of it,” Plisetsky commented, “Sure about that?”

“I got a bucket, in any case. How much did he have to drink?”

Yuuri was set into motion and obediently tagged along.

“Dunno,” Plisetsky said, “I didn't take count. But a whole lot of champagne. And probably hadn't had much to eat today. Not on opening night, not him, I mean... he's... he is him after all.”

Sadly this was true. Yuuri hadn't eaten much today. It might have been a slight miscalculation on his part, admittedly, but it was opening night, who would expect him to eat properly?

“Thanks. I get him to bed. Are you here tomorrow or do you spend the night as you are supposed to?” Viktor asked, a smile in his voice.

“Dunno what you mean by that,” Plisetsky answered, terse.

“Really, you do need to be a bit more social if you want to grab a sponsor, you know how these things go.” Viktor sighed. “So, you'll be here or not, just asking?”

“Don't know. Might get drunk, just to bear the sheer stupidity of this whole mess.” Plisetsky sounded rather annoyed. “I mean have you seen who's here tonight?”

“A bit. That Frenchman was there, right? Ilroi or what?”

“Leroy. Stupid name, stupid as his owner,” Plisetsky sighed. “I don't like him.”

“He seems to like you, though,” Viktor replied while Yuuri's eyes grew even heavier. “Don't shut an opportunity down without even having considered it. You know whether he is actually wealthy? Or is he just posing?”

“No idea, I don't care, I mean... blergh! And anyways, good night!”

“Have a fun evening, _koteshka_.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

As Plisetsky's steps vanished in the distance Yuuri felt himself moved.

“Party was nice, I take it?” Viktor asked, chuckling.

“Hmhm.” Yuuri blinked up to him. “Many people. Urgh.”

“I see. Let’s get you to bed then, right?”

“Hmhm. Bed.” Bed sounded nice. Very nice indeed. Yuuri nodded along happily as Viktor led him behind the screen.

He hadn’t seen Viktor’s bed yet, it occurred to him, and the thought made him slightly giddy, especially when Viktor started to remove his dinner jacket and then his tie. “Hey you gonna take my virginity, or what?” he giggled.

Viktor paused and in the flickering candlelight Yuuri could see his good eye growing wide.

“Would you want me to?” He sounded somewhat raw all of a sudden.

Well, that was unexpected. Not that Yuuri had been expecting anything. That would have required thinking and that was quite out of question right now. “Well if anyone then you.” He would have never been able to answer the question even remotely coherently if he had been sober. Thank God and the Virgin Mary for alcohol.

Viktor sighed, close to Yuuri’s face, tickling his cheeks with his breath. Then he shook his head and turned away to hang Yuuri’s jacket over a chair. “I thank you for the offer but no, I will not.”

The rejection as well was neither expected nor unexpected, but it still cut through the fog like a torch.

“What?” Despite himself, Yuuri felt tears welling up in his eyes. “You don't want me?”

“Oh, that's not...”

The realization hit him and he sniffed. “No one loves me!”, he stated, while his sight got ever more blurry and heat was streaming down his face.

“Oh dear...” Viktor's hand moved over his head. “Yuuri, dear, that's not true at all!”

“Celestino didn't, that's why he sent me away!” Yuuri blurted out, tears coming and coming and not stopping. “And you, you... you don't either!”

He would have very much liked to jump up and leave the room in a dramatic huff, but sadly, the alcohol had other opinions. Even sitting up made the world spin and he flopped right back.

Viktor spread his arm over his chest. “That's not true at all, dear, really, not true at all.”

It was a nice thing to hear, for sure, and still. And still.

Yuuri sniffled. “Not true. Or you'd... or you'd...” Not even drunk he could form a coherent picture in his head, even less say it out loud. He only knew he wanted to be closer to him, much closer and that he wanted to be touched and feel him and be felt and damn. “And I love you so much...” It came out as a whine and he was drunk, but that didn't change the fact that it was the truth and that he had to say it.

Damn.

“Yeah. Love you,” he repeated and buried his face in Viktor's shirt. It smelled so lovely. Viktor was using Eau de Cologne? How hadn't he noticed until now?

Viktor laughed, short and choked. “Well, that makes two of us.” There was a warm pressure of lips on his brow and then his cheeks and nose and chin and Yuuri scuttled closer to Viktor, all previous feelings of rejection forgotten.

The words were slowly sinking in. “You love me?” he asked, half in disbelief, half laughing.

“Do so,” Viktor answered, somewhat choked, close to him and then burying his face in Yuuri's neck. “What does that make us?”

“Lovers?” Yuuri suggested, slinging a leg over Viktor's. “I think lovers?”

“Lovers would sound nice indeed,” Viktor agreed, lips still leaning against the crook of Yuuri's neck. “You should sleep now, dear. You must be tired.”

“Dead tired,” Yuuri agreed and oh, how heavy his body was. Heavy indeed.

Viktor chuckled. “Alright, I will be done in a second.”  
Yuuri's trousers were removed and Viktor wrapped a blanket around him. “Do you need anything? Water? Or a bucket?”

“Hm.” Yuuri mumbled, leaning into Viktor's arms. “You'd be nice.”

He heard Viktor laugh while his eyes were closing ever more. “You are impossible. Alright. Just... give me a moment? I will be with you in a moment, yes?”

He left and Yuuri felt strangely rejected again, despite Viktor's reassurances that he wasn't. The feeling caught in his throat, vibrating and pitching his voice.

From somewhere distant he could hear a soft rustle and a few muffled gasps and finally, steps coming back to him, while the last few lights in the cave were one by one extinguished.

Yuuri blinked as Viktor, lamp in hand, approached the bed, face in sharp, flickering shadows, smiling and Yuuri had never wanted anything so much as he right now wanted him close. “You feel alright?”

The rejection at once stopped humming in Yuuri's throat. “Hmhm...” he mumbled.

“Enjoy it while it lasts, it will pass and I am still not sure whether I should pity you or laugh at you by then.” Still, Viktor's voice was sweet and warm as he laid down next to Yuuri, draping another blanket over the two of them. “This is alright?”

It most definitely was, especially when Viktor huddled a little closer and then had a hand run over Yuuri's side, letting it rest on his waist. “Sleep now, dear. Tomorrow is suffering, so enjoy tonight.”

And Yuuri did, gladly.  
  


When he awoke, he at first did not know whether he had opened his eyes or not. Around him it was pitch black, the air damp and cool, but he himself was wrapped into warm, soft blankets. He blinked and stars began flashing in front of his eyes. “Urgh...”

And just from that little sound, his head hurt.

“Awake?” Viktor asked, a smile in his voice, gentle, sweet and way too loud.

“Don't know,” Yuuri groaned and again, pain, pain, endless pain to the head. “If yes, kill me.”

“Aw, no, most definitely not.” Viktor's hand brushed over his cheek. “First hangover?”

“Not really. But first one in a long time,” Yuuri mumbled. Very long time indeed. The last time he had gotten that drunk had been years ago and if Yuuri recalled correctly, at something social and public as well. Alcohol had always helped him cope with being surrounded by too many people, so no surprise there. And after that evening Yuuri had been very careful not to indulge too much of neither wine nor Celestino's beloved grappa, no matter how much his guardian would pester him with the stuff. He had learned his lesson and stuck to it.

Or so he had thought.

“Champagne is of the devil,” he declared into the pillow. “Makes sense too. The French made it first, right?”

Viktor laughed and it made Yuuri's ears ring. His subsequent groan didn't help matters.

“Did the devil make the Germans make their own version?”

“Yes, by the promise of sparkly, fizzy, head-spinning goodness,” Yuuri mumbled. “That's not so much giving a choice but forcing you while tricking you into doing it on your own volition.”

“Fine then, champagne of any origin is of the devil,” Viktor agreed. His long fingers started to stroke Yuuri's neck. Now that felt a lot better than his splitting headache. “Leaves still the question – did the devil also put one glass after another into your hand and then force your mouth open to pour champagne down your throat?”

Yuuri pondered it a bit. “Technically not,” he then admitted. “But still, given any other optional course of action I could have taken last night, drinking champagne seemed to be the only good one, so it wasn't much of a choice after all. If the only choice I have is to commit a sin, it isn't a choice and a sin I commit under force is not my fault.”

Viktor seemed to ponder this for a moment, then he laughed. “Oh dear, you  _are_ Catholic.”

“You make that sound like it's a bad thing.”

“It's not, I promise. But highly entertaining.” Viktor's hands started massaging the back of his head and Yuui felt his muscles twitch and tense before relaxing completely. His headache eased up a bit as well, fading to a soft throb behind his temples.

“Next time you drink too much you should have someone douse you with some holy water, to scare the devil away,” Viktor suggested. “Would be fun to watch as well.”

“You seem to enjoy my suffering far too much,” Yuuri grumbled, while using his ever clearer head to mull about last night.

“Your hangover is more enjoyable than Yura's. He can be an outright bitch.”

“Can be?” Yuuri asked, chuckling and regretting it the next moment. “Ow.”

“I'll fetch you some water,” Viktor said and then Yuuri heard a soft rustle, clinking and then the sound of a match struck.

The flame cut into his eyes and he groaned again. “Too bright!”

“Sorry, dear.” Viktor ran his hand through Yuuri's hair and then lit the lamp. “I'll be right back.” He then got up and wandered away.

Yuuri let his gaze follow him and realized that the man was wandering away buck naked. So very, very naked.

What?

Suddenly his headache got worse in an entirely new dimension.

Viktor was wandering around naked in front of him – more or less.

And Yuuri had been quite drunk last night. Come to think of it, he didn't remember much of what had happened after Plisetsky had dragged him away from people, alcohol and potential public embarrassment. Yuuri made a mental note to thank the boy for that when he had the chance. As it was, he probably had embarrassed himself only in front of Viktor. Which was already bad enough, but at least he would not be known as that Oriental with the lack of self-control. Bad reputation was easily accumulated and hard to shed, especially when one had no accomplishments to weigh against it. Plisetsky had really done him a solid here.

Still, that left the question what had happened after Plisetsky had apparently dragged him down here for real and thrown him into Viktor's arms. Then again, the question was probably less what had happened and more if something had happened.

Viktor had slept next to him, naked.

Yuuri had still his smallclothes on.

And Viktor was even more affectionate than Yuuri already knew him to be.

He had called him  _dear._

So what was he to make of all this?

Viktor, lamp in one hand and a jug and one of his mugs in the other, returned and yes, he was still naked. Yuuri was grateful that the lamp, being the only source of light, was generous enough to cast obscuring shadows. Right now the concept of a naked Viktor in itself was quite overwhelming. He was not sure whether he could cope with actually getting a good look.

Viktor poured him some water. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” Yuuri had forgotten how good water could taste, sweet and clear and like everything young and new. 

“Better?” Viktor asked, while running a hand over Yuuri’s neck.

“Worlds better.” Yuuri may or may not started to purr at the touch.

Viktor chuckled.

“And I am pretty clueless what happened after Plisetsky dragged me away from that devilish elixir and down here, I’m afraid. Can you fill me in?”

Viktor gave his neck a last stroke. “There is not much to fill you in about, actually,” he then said, “Yura brought you here, complained a bit, delightful child that he is, and then left. I brought you to bed afterwards and warned you that I might not take pity on you about your hangover. Which I do not. How is your head?”

Yuuri chuckled. “I will live, I think. Might be even fine by the time rehearsal tomorrow morning starts.”

“Good.”

So Yuuri had not run on his mouth? Huh, interesting. He tended to be a rather talkative drunk and there were certain things that were on the tip of his tongue lately when it came to Viktor. Not that he was glad he hadn’t made a drunken love confession. Yuuri suspected that Viktor did reciprocate his feelings (either that or the reason for him being down here was that his teaching methods had been too hands on for someone’s comfort) and he would have to talk to him sometime soon. If he had talked while drunk - well, the world would not end from that, but there were certain things one should be sober for.

So… good. Very good.

Yuuri listened up as a fall of footsteps quickly stomped closer.

“Ah,” Viktor remarked, “Yura seems to be in high spirits this morning. How lovely.”

“Viktor!” a familiar, angry voice called soon enough, “Don’t tell me you’re still sleeping!”

“High spirits indeed,” Viktor sighed. He rose and walked to the screen, giving Yuuri another somewhat shadow-obscured view of his backside. The flickering light though was more than enough for Yuuri to see the lines and curves of Viktor’s shoulders, waist and hips. Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

Probably the priest taking his confession would now be bored to death with the frequent addition of swearing to the list of sins he had to proclaim Yuuri free of.

Then another thought shot through his head. “Wait, Viktor, you’re-”

“Morning, Yura!”

“Iargh!”

“Naked,” Yuuri added, softly and decided that it was probably for the best to get out and find his clothes again.

“Urgh, get dressed!” Plisetsky screeched. “Disgusting! Irgh!” Amusingly, he seemed to have spontaneously developed into a mezzo soprano. 

“But I live here,” Viktor chirped, voice oozing innocence. “Why should I not be allowed to move about my home in any state of dress or undress as I see fit?”

“Because it’s gross! Get dressed… ugh, I get you something!” Plisetsky’s steps came around the screen and then he - lit candle in one hand - stood in front of Yuuri, just as he was about to step into his trousers.

“Oh…” Even with only candlelight Yuuri could see the boy blanch.

He looked up and down on him. “Urgh, really!” Then he added, “At least you’re not naked!” and walked past Yuuri to a chest, dug through it, retrieved something apparently red and flouncy and stalked off with it.

While he buttoned up his shirt - now that was in need of a wash woman - he could hear Plisetsky and Viktor move about talk in fast, agitated Russian until Viktor called, “Yuuri, breakfast is almost ready!”

When he came around the screen, Viktor was dressed in a tunic that definitely once had been a dress and his striped pants, smiling a bright, heart-shaped smile, and he looked equal parts ridiculous and adorable and Yuuri felt himself melt a little on the inside when that smile was directed at him. 

“Morning again,” he greeted, while Plisetsky busied himself with the kettle.

Plisetsky looked up from his work and stared at them as they stood maybe two steps apart, smiling at each other, Viktor brightly and heart-shaped and Yuuri warm-faced and shyly, the stupid image of Viktor's naked backside still haunting him. Damn!

He sighed as he carried the kettle over to the table. “Urgh. You two are...”

“Yes, _koteshka_?” Viktor smiled at him. “We are what?”

Plisetsky rolled his eyes, pouring the water into the tea pot. “Nothing,” he then grumbled. “Breakfast! Now!”

“Grace first!” Viktor insisted as they sat down. 

“I'm in a hurry!” Plisetsky argued. “Long day ahead.”

Viktor smiled. “Oh, really? What are your plans?”

Plisetsky shrugged. “So, we say grace now or what?”

Viktor sighed and folded his hands. “If his majesty insists, we may say grace.”

They went through their individual Paternosters and then started to pass around tea, bread and butter and cheese.

“So,” Viktor asked again, “What are your plans for today that you are in such a hurry?”

Plisetsky shrugged. “Meeting up with some folks.”

“Oh, friends?” Viktor continued on, sounding rather excited at the prospect. “How nice!”

“Yes. Friends.” Plisetsky nodded. “Friends.” He took a sip of his tea, averting his eyes. “Which is exactly why I don't want to stay too long here.”

“Really, good for you. You need to go out more and meet people and...” Viktor was still smiling. His right eye wandered quickly to Yuuri and then back to his own plate. “And you, Yuuri, what are your plans for your day off?”

“It's Wednesday,” Yuuri answered. “I actually thought we'd work today.”

“No.” Viktor shook his head. “No regular rehearsal on the day of opening night, because of nerves. No regular rehearsal on the day after opening night, because as Yakov found out, tired and hungover performers are too much of a hassle to yell at.”

Plisetsky snickered. “He did it once, right? A few months after he took over chorus direction, if I remember it right.”

“Yes. He had us rehearse on the day of opening night.” Viktor chuckled. “And was yelling non-stop because we were all so on edge. Of course, his yelling didn't make it any better.”

“When the curtain rose, the whole chorus was a ship wreck on the bottom of the ocean. Complete with algae and dead skeletons and such,” Plisetsky helped to illustrate.

“Oh, how I love your vivid imagery,” Viktor sighed. “And well, our poor solo singers. You can imagine how well it went.”

“Oh yes.” Yuuri's stomach was squeamish in a way that most definitely had nothing to do with the residue champagne. He had been nervous yesterday, extremely so, but he had only been in the chorus, he had been safe, surrounded by other singers, no collective attention focussed on him. It had been alright in the end, thanks to that. Now, a solo role on the other hand? And he should sing one?

He turned to Plisetsky, one eyebrow raised. “All things considered, I get the feeling you want me to die of a heart attack, preferably on stage?”

“Nah. Imagine the bad press for the theatre. Yet another singer dead.” He shot a pointed look to Viktor, the meaning of which remained hidden to Yuuri. 

“And well, the next morning at rehearsal we were all exhausted and hungover and plain terrified of him,” Viktor continued. “Most of us had spent the whole night drowning our sorrows, because – it wasn't a good performance. Really not.”

“You all totally sucked,” Plisetsky agreed. “Audience didn't notice, though.”

“Yes, Yakov was totally right yelling at us for that, no one's arguing about that.” Viktor chewed on his bread. “End of story, Yakov had no voice, our lead soprano broke down in tears and half the chorus did the same. Come the day before next opening night and he declares that there won't be rehearsals for the next two days and we should get some sleep. Hasn't changed it since.” He took a sip of his tea. “My point about this is, when he orders rest and recuperation, I would advise against not following his orders.”

Yuuri sighed. “So, no lessons today?”

“No lessons today. What are your other plans?”

Yuuri shrugged. “I don't know. I could stay anyway?”

Plisetsky made a show of gagging, but was cordially ignored.

Viktor seemed to ponder it, but only for a moment. “I am sure it's a fine day,” he then said, “you should go out and enjoy yourself. Meet friends. Enjoy the sun. Don't stay cooped up inside when you could have a nice walk one the riverside.” He smiled and did so in an obviously very forced fashion.

“Alright.” Yuuri nodded. “It does sound like a nice idea.”

Plisetsky chewed on his slice of bread. “I'm headed to the library today after my rehearsal today. Want me to get some books for you?”

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

“Any specific interests?”

Viktor shrugged. “Take what you see fit. I'm not picky right now.” He took another sip of tea, gazing in contemplation at the empty air in front of his nose. “How was the party anyway?

Aside of the prominent feature of devilish beverages.”

“Lively,” Plisetsky answered, making a face. “Many people. Got introduced to some ladies.”

“Oh dear.” Viktor sighed.

“There's not much I could do, right?” Yuuri answered in defence. “You introduced someone to me in the presence of people, I had to introduce back.”

“You could have excused yourself for a bit.”

“That would have been rude.”

“So?” Plisetsky asked, causing Yuuri to groan a bit. “You didn't return to your friend after you left with the Siamese. Rude as well.”

“I didn't return because you dragged me off.”

“I dragged you off because you were drunk.”

“Ah. Right.” Yuuri nodded. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

“You're welcome.”

“Siamese?” Viktor asked.

“Yes. Spice trader or something. Phichit Chula.” Plisetsky shrugged. “He's often in Dresden. Disgustingly cheerful and friendly. I always feel like someone's pouring honey over me when he's talking. And he's not even faking it. Disgusting.”

“Sounds lovely, I like him,” Viktor hummed.

“Yeah, the moment he spotted Katsuki he insisted on being introduced. Yakov couldn't be bothered, so I had to do it.”

“He said he was excited to meet another Asian here,” Yuuri mumbled. “There aren't many around here, I take?”

“No. What did he want from you anyways?”

“He wanted to chat,” Yuuri answered, feeling Viktor's gaze falling upon him. “Talked a bit about his business, but that's it. But yes, he is nice.”

“And very definitely loaded,” Plisetsky commented. “Keep that in mind when you start singing solos.”

Viktor smiled dryly. “You know, Yuroshka, before you start helping others to snatch a wealthy sponsor you should thing about getting one yourself.”

Plisetsky made a face. “Anyways,” he sighed, “I need to go.” He got up. “Bye. Have a nice day.” He headed off towards the exit. “Katsuki, don't stay here all day, you'll catch the weirdo from him!”

“I love you too, _koteshka_!” Viktor called after him, laughing.

Plisetsky's steps disappeared in the distance and Yuuri shook his head. “Koteshka? What does that mean?”

“ _Kot_ is the cat,” Viktor smiled. “ _koteshka_ is the kitten.”

“I guess, if anyone else calls him that nobody will ever find the body?”

“Most certainly. So, what did you think of that man?”

“Phichit Chula?” Yuuri shrugged. “Nice. Friendly. Probably not too versed in music. Seems like the sort of person who goes to the theatre to socialise rather than for the performance on stage.”

“Well, there have to be people like that as well, I guess.” Viktor sighed. “Otherwise?”

“Johannes and his patron introduced me to a friend of hers.” Yuuri shivered. “Thinking about it, Yuri saved me the first time when he brought Phichit over and distracted her.”

“Middle aged wealthy widow with an unhealthy interest in young men and their love lives and the quality thereof?” Viktor asked, smiling. “I know the type. Distraction is really the best method to get away from them. So you had fun?”

“A bit. I am not good with such things, though.” Yuuri saw Viktor's hand move, as if he wanted to reach out to him, but then he did not follow through. “What are your plans for today, though?” he asked.

“Nothing special. Composing a bit. Later sneaking up into the attic and torturing the poor cembalo for a bit to see whether my ideas sound as good in practise as they do in my head.”

“What are you working on?”

Did Viktor actually blush? And smile rather sheepishly? Yuuri's insides once again got rather soft.

“Uh, an opera, actually.” Yes, indeed, Viktor was blushing, his smile had a distinctively nervous quality and his hands were fluttering a bit, moving over the surface of the table and then running through his hair so that Yuuri wanted to hold them, just a little. “I am reworking it a bit right now. New ideas for the story.”

Yuuri cocked his head, mimicking Viktor's way of looking at him, he noticed. “You are writing the libretto too?”

“There hasn't been much material for me to put music to, at least not in German.” Viktor ran a hand through his hair, eyes, both the working and the blind one flitting about nervously. Yes, he was most definitely nervous.

“I'd like to hear some of it sometime,” Yuuri said. “If you want to, of course.”

“I...” Viktor cleared his throat. “Well, I am currently rewriting some things, so, I don't really think I have something to show yet.”

“I see.” Yuuri nodded. “Whenever you think you got something then.”

“Of course.” Viktor breathed out and then breathed in. He again looked ahead in contemplation. He bit his lip and Yuuri wanted to lean over and stop him from it, but he refrained. Kissing was most definitely something you did not do unless you had made your affections clear and were assured of them being mutual. There was a certain order to these sort of things after all.

The silence between them stretched.

“If you want to get out unnoticed without too much trouble, you should go now,” Viktor said finally. “I accompany to the door.”

Yuuri nodded and tried very hard to hide his disappointment at being dismissed already.

“Thank you. I can take a look at the music store, whether they got the cats' duet.”

“Thank you.” Viktor got up. “Let's go then.”

They walked though the darkness in silence, Yuuri interlacing his fingers with Viktor's. He noticed that Viktor's fingers twitched at first before relaxing into the touch and answering to it. Something felt off and it was unsettling in how off it was.

Yuuri wanted to lean against Viktor's shoulder to reassure him as much as himself – since there was no telling what was off – but for some reason, he ultimately shied away from the idea.

When they arrived at the door to the basement it was Viktor who pulled his hand away and did so so gently that Yuuri only noticed it when he clasped thin air.

Okay, so things did not only feel off, they actually were off.

But what was it?

Yuuri tried his best to find some words to ask Viktor, but the moment he opened his mouth he heard Viktor speak. “Well, have a lovely day. See you on Wednesday then.”

Then the door opened and Yuuri was gently pushed out, the door was closed and then locked again.

Wednesday. So whatever Yuuri had done to offend Viktor, it apparently had not been enough for him to refrain from spending time on Yuuri’s lessons or to outright deny Yuuri to touch him.

But the shift from the extremely affectionate Viktor of this morning to the withdrawal Yuuri had just witnessed was drastic.

What had Yuuri done to him? It had to be quite bad if Viktor didn’t want to bring it up. And it had to have something to do with last night, given the fact that Yuuri had no recollection of it. (Maybe that was for the best, if his actions had really been that ostracising.)

He would have to ask to find out and he had to find out, whether he wanted or not. If Viktor hadn't said what was the matter by the end of their Friday lesson Yuuri would ask him what he had done wrong and how he could make it right again. If he could make it right again, that was. And if not – well, better he didn't mull about it until it was time to mull about it, right?

Right?

 

He did, in fact, mull about it.

And as per usual when he mulled about something he was anxious about, his anxiety would not let up.

Thankfully, Mr. Feltsman had a sharp eye on his singers, not allowing them a moment to dawdle. As long as Yuuri had something else to focus on, his thoughts did not spin quite as much. 

Johannes quizzed him about Phichit (“He seemed nice. How is he? He did not want anything weird, right, if he did, I’ll punch him back on his tree.”) and disappearing without notice (“Tell me at least! You got me worried, idiot!”) before filling him in on what he had missed (“Lady Poellchau tried to take Plisetsky home. And survived. No idea how she did it.”). They all talked about the press concerning the  _Wildschütz_ ; largely positive, praising the solid performances of the solo singers, especially young Mila Babitch's performance as Gretchen who had proven with her easy, innocent charme that a German ingénue would not have to fear comparison to any Italian primadonna.

Both the German ingénue and the Italian primadonna had been spotted sharing newspapers, reading paragraphs out to each other and giggling like little girls.

During their lesson Viktor was kind, strict and helpful as usual and Yuuri tried his best to not be hurt when the only touch Viktor himself would initiate was to pull his shoulders back and correct his posture. He didn’t even linger like he usually did.

On Thursday Yuuri was alright.

He exchanged greetings and jokes with Andreas, Thomas and Alexander, heartily ignored August and sang.

On Friday it was the same, at least in the morning. After rehearsal he went to town, finally picking up the sheet music for the  _Duetto buffo di due gatti_ he had promised Viktor to bring, and then returned for the preparations for the evening performance even earlier than usual, pacing the corridors, lurking near those dark corners Viktor preferred to hide in before performances, hoping to catch sight of him and have a chance for them to talk even before tonight's lesson.

But Viktor was late.

The first of the other singers had already come in and would soon get to the dressing room and change when Yuuri finally heard soft steps.

“There you are,” he said and yes, the pout was very present in his voice. “You are late.”

“I'...” Viktor started, but didn't finish. “Have you been waiting for long?” he asked instead of whatever he had wanted to say in the first place.

“Yes,” Yuuri answered. That, however, sounded too curt for his own taste, so he quickly added, “Not much to do in town.”

“Have you eaten?” Viktor asked, coming a bit closer to him.

“Yes. I spotted another soup vendor near the Albert bridge. Good one this time, even.”

“Not nervous, then?”

He had been worse, Yuuri realized. “Well, it's not opening night anymore, right? And we did well. I think we will do alright today as well. Probably even better than the first time around. Mr. Feltsman drilled us through the parts he found faulty.” He was not fully alright, but it was better than Yuuri had often been before a performance. “It's better.”

“That is good.” There was a smile in Viktor's voice.

Yuuri waited for him to tell him to come closer and turn his back to him, he waited for Viktor's hands on his shoulders.

It never came. “Have fun,” Viktor said, “and work hard.”

And then Yuuri heard only his steps retreating and with each step he felt the air leaving his lungs without coming back for a while.

And then his breath returned all at once and with it a flash of anger on top of that. Just what had he done wrong?!

He wanted to call after him, but that might have drawn attention to the fact that there was someone in the shadows who did not want to be seen.

He swallowed the call back down, and with it apparently so much air that breathing did not seem possible once more. He stood there staring after Viktor, staring into the darkness. 

It was time for him to go and get dressed and then warm up and get ready for performance. But he couldn't move.

He stared down at his feet, willing himself to move them and they refused to obey him. What was wrong with him?

Why could he not move? Why now?

He had to leave. He had to go, he had to get ready, he had to move, he had to, he was not allowed stay here, he couldn't fail.

He did not move.

“Yuuri?”

Something – someone – grabbed him by the shoulder and as he was turned around.

“Yuuri, what's the – oh shit.” Johannes had the uncanny ability to express himself very eloquently, aptly and with very little words whenever he needed to.

Yuuri felt himself dragged away from the corridor and slowly, slowly the feeling started to creep back up his body. His lungs started to do their work again.

Good.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, “you seem to have a knack for showing up when needed.”

“Dumb luck, really.” Johannes leaned him against a wall. Yuuri could feel the cool, hard stone meeting his back and he spread his hands to grasp as much of the feel as possible. “But – you look awful. Like, like...”

“Try-out?” Yuuri suggested, attempting and failing a laugh, “Something like that.”

“Nerves?”

“Guess so. No idea why.” Which was a lie and he would have to confess on Sunday. With all that he had planned to confess he probably should prepare himself to pray down a rosary.

(The very fact that he could think in such dimensions again was somewhat heartening.)

Johannes apparently did not recognise too well when he was being lied to. “Okay, okay...” He blew his cheeks, thinking hard. “Okay... deep breaths, yes? Deep. Yes, that's good,” he praised as Yuuri managed to follow his directions. “It will be alright, it will be alright, you hear me? We did really well in the opening night. We are really good. Really. We are good, you can trust in that.” His hand again clasped Yuuri's shoulder. “It will be alright, really.”

“I know.” Yuuri sighed. “I know, but... I don't know. I wish I knew why this happens, but I don't know, I just know that it is the way it is.”

Johannes shook his head very slightly. Then he nodded. Then he shook his head again. Nevertheless, his hand remained where it was, on Yuuri's shoulder. “Something happened?”

Yuuri pondered it a bit, but then shook his head. There were things he could not talk to Johannes about, no matter how much he wanted to. Maybe Johannes would have understood. Maybe, just maybe he would not have judged him because he liked men, if anything. He would still be cross to have been lied to about Yuuri's sweetheart, though.

Or maybe not. Maybe revealing that part of himself would mean loosing someone who had become a very dear friend in a rather short time.

Yuuri did not want to risk that.

And it was not like he could mention Viktor, no matter what turn such a conversation might take.

He shook his head. “No. I don't think so, really.”

“Trouble with your girl? That can put someone out.” Johannes smiled sympathetically.

“Yes.” That was as close to the truth as it would get. “Yes,” Yuuri said. “Yes, that's pretty much it.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really. I probably have done something to offend her, but I have to know what it is that I did, so I can make it right again and...” He ran a hand through his hair. “Damn...” Everything was muting down again. Not good, so not good, so definitely not good.

“Alright.” Johannes sighed and looked around. “Where's... ah – there... Mr. Erhardt? We got an emergency here! You got something with you?!”

Steps. Then Yuuri hear some talking and then he felt something cold touching his lips.

“Alright, one small sip.” Johannes Erhardt's friendly, full bass resonated in his head and his chest as Yuuri gulped and felt the alcohol burn down his throat and into his stomach. He coughed and felt a strong, fleshy hand clapping his back. “Urgh.”

“Better?” Johannes Erhardt laughed, accompanied by the chorus' Johannes.

“I am not sure.” Yuuri himself mumbled, still coughing. Then he blinked. His head _was_ a lot clearer. “Yes, I think it worked. What was that?”

“Grain spirit infused with cinnamon and nutmeg,” Johannes Erhardt grinned. “You only need a drop to get a clear head and it is too hot on the tongue to be drunk in large quantities.”

Yuuri smiled. “I see. Thank you.”

“Better now?” Johannes Erhardt asked and Yuuri nodded. Right now it was hard to imagine how this cold would ever again creep over him, not with his tongue and throat burning like that. “Good. Now get dressed, you two. We got a performance to give, right?”

Yes, that was right. Yuuri nodded, still Johannes' hand on his shoulders. They had a performance to give. They had a job to do.

And at the very least, even if he was alone off-stage, he was not on-stage. There were always fellow singers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well thank you two for being such idiots. ... then again, I have nobody to blame but myself for this one, so... eh.  
> Phichit's finally here, son of the head of an international trading company and amateur artist. (he will probably develop an obsession with photography during his life time).   
> Note on his name: In Thailand family names were not in use until around 1920. From what I've gleaned this meant that you went by your first name and probably a descriptor or a nickname. Apparently this fashion has not really changed. My source says that family names rarely ever come into play. Thus, as he said, he had to adopt his father's name as his surname for the time being, because Europeans in mid-19th century tended to be gigantic twats about anything foreign. ... Culanont was not an existing name back then. Chula, however was and thankfully the meaning remains the same. 
> 
> Aaaaaaaaaaaaaanyways, thank you all again for reading! If you want to chat me up or read about me hissing and spitting about the current writing progress, I'm siberianchan on tumblr. Or you can check out my ko-fi page, I usually leave status updates there too. 
> 
> On another note: one thing I am and will always be grumpy about, is casual racism. ... how awesome that the setting for "Sing for me" allows for a lot of it. ... yay? So first - this will pop up again in later chapters, be warned. Second - yes, I'll add a tag.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which people are miserable.

Chapter 09

 

Well, if there was one good thing Yuuri could say it was that he didn't freeze up again and that he sang and danced through his parts, but it felt more like his body going through a well-practised movement than him actually doing any significant work. It was supremely unsatisfying, but at least he got through it.

“You need a drink,” Andreas declared when they were done and dressed back into their street clothes. “You look terrible.”

“I know,” Yuuri sighed as he dried off his face. Even after he had scrubbed the stage make-up off and reddened his cheeks and brow significantly in the process, his nose was pale and his eyes shadowed. His conversation with Viktor from before definitely had cost him too much sleep in the last few days. Just another reason to clear things up quickly. He really would like to sleep properly again, without his head cracking itself to pieces over this mess.

“But the last thing I need is a drink, really.”

“Oh, come on, you could do with a night out and have some fun!” Alexander complained. “First Johannes, now you! Really, thank you, guys, I will never get myself a girl, all they do is make you feel miserable.”

Yuuri sighed. “You have no idea.”

“But you could do with some fun,” Johannes agreed. “I think I might join in as well.”

From Andreas and Thomas there was hooting.

“No, really.” Yuuri shook his head. Company, drinks and noise really were the last things he needed today. One instance of freezing was quite enough. Not to mention that he had to talk to the cause for his current condition. “I... sorry, I...” Damn. “I'm not well. I'll be better tomorrow, but...” His fingers twitched. Why were words so hard? He finally decided that continuing to try would only prolong his suffering. “Well. Bye. Have fun! See you tomorrow.” And with that he ushered himself out.

Admittedly, that could have gone better, but that would have involved talking and explaining and neither felt Yuuri up to that right now, nor had he time for that. Viktor was usually already waiting for him at this point.

After a performance their lessons were held in the attic where they had met the first few times and right now Yuuri clearly preferred the attic. Up there they could work using the cembalo instead of only the violin, which seemed to be Viktor's favoured method of accompanying Yuuri and drilling new melodies into his head. Additionally, it was easier to reach and later at night sneak out again, even when he was dead tired, and after that first rainstorm enforced sleepover he had always sneaked out and gone home. Viktor had to get down to his place and get some sleep too, after all, and Yuuri himself paid for his bed and board in the boarding house and he should be damned if he he didn't make use of it. Not to mention that on Wednesday he had been rather distracted by the idea of being in so close proximity to that damned bed. Which he had still no idea of what exactly happened in it. Or what didn't.

So now he climbed up the flies and stairways and balanced along the precariously thin bridges towards the corridor and then duck into the darkness.

Of course Viktor was already there. Yuuri could see a faint line of light flicker out from underneath the door.

He still knocked, announcing his incoming, before opening the door and slipping in. “I hope I'm not late?”

Viktor leaned against a window and then started to move about the room once Yuuri had closed the door, lighting up his collection of candlesticks. “I almost thought you would not come,” he confessed while the room grew brighter and brighter.

“Why wouldn't I?”

“I thought you might be unwell.” Having finished his work, Viktor blew out the candle in his hand and then stood there for a moment, looking like he wanted to walk towards Yuuri, but he remained where he was. “You did not look too well before.”

_Now who's fault would that be?_ Yuuri wanted to ask, but that was not fair. It wasn't Viktor's fault that Yuuri's nerves could fray so easily and he certainly had no idea how much he had effected Yuuri's present state of mind. Yuuri being weak was not Viktor's fault and Yuuri would not force him to burden himself with something he had no part in.

“I had a case of nerves,” he said. “I am good now, though. Though I think my performance suffered from it today.”

“It did.” Well, trust Viktor to not mince his words when it came to Yuuri's performances and the faults he found with them. “I almost did not hear you.”

“I sang, though.” Yuuri reached into his folio. “By the way, here is the Cats' duet.”

“Oh, you really thought of it!” Viktor clapped his hands, mouth widening into that heart shaped smile of his that made Yuuri's pulse skip. Now he finally came closer and took the sheet music, smiling broadly.

Maybe it would be alright. Yuuri could certainly hope for things to be good, right?

When Viktor took the papers, Yuuri swiftly let a finger run over the back of his hand, hopefully an initiation for further contact.

It was not. Viktor withdrew his hand in a slow, even movement, all the while smiling.

“Thank you so much.” He quickly leafed through the sheets, chuckling. “You were right, this _is_ easy.”

Yuuri bit on his lip and then willed himself to smile. Smiling was always better than showing hurt. “Celestino clings to the theory that it was put together the way it is because the person who did it had to work with children.”

“Celestino?” Viktor asked with something like polite disinterest in his voice. “Who’s that?”

Yuuri could have sworn that he at some point had mentioned him by name, but apparently he had been wrong. “Maestro Cialdini. Musical director at the  _Scala_ in Milan,” he answered. “He pretty much raised me.”

Viktor seemed to think about this for a moment. Then he nodded, something like a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. “Ah, yes. You mentioned him before. The fellow Wagner-hater.”

“The very same,” Yuuri confirmed.

“You must miss him a lot, even if you do not miss Milan,” Viktor remarked.

“I do.” It still hurt to think about how he had been sent away. He had dreaded the day of his eventual departure from the moment it had been announced to him.

And yet he had obeyed and left. And now here he was.

“But now I am here and all I can do is make him proud to have raised me,” Yuuri sighed, thoughtfully. “And I don’t regret coming here,” he finally added.

It made Viktor smile and Yuuri dearly wished he knew what the matter was. Viktor obviously had not all of a sudden decided that Yuuri was annoying and terrible and embarrassing. He very much showed interest in him and his life and maybe it  _was_ just Yuuri’s imagination, but he did see a reflection of his own feelings in Viktor’s eyes.

Well, Plisetsky knew Viktor better than Yuuri did, so Yuuri decided that he could rely on his assessment of Viktor’s character as utterly and irrevocably weird. This weirdness of his (along with his voice) was what had so utterly charmed Yuuri, but right now he found it supremely and exasperatingly confusing. He hated confusion.

“Well, in that case we should get to work, right?” Viktor remarked and went to the cembalo. “I say we should go through the songs from the _Wildschütz_ for a start. You really were not up to your usual form today. We should find out what caused this and how to amend it.”

“I was distracted today, I fear,” Yuuri sighed. “I'm sorry for that. But...”

“But what?” Viktor sat down at the cembalo and looked up to Yuuri, eye wide with expectation. “What is the matter?”

“That's what I would like to know.” Yuuri took a deep breath and stepped closer to the cembalo. He had to remain strong now. He could not get weak now. He had started it now, he had started to ask and gotten Viktor's attention. Now he had to stick to it, until he had an answer of sufficient detail and elaboration.

Viktor blinked up to him. “What?”

“Maybe I'm just imagining things, but you have been acting strange for a few days.” _Good start, Yuri, really good start_ , he praised himself. He knew something was up and he would be insistent on finding out what it was.

“Did I?” Viktor continued to ask. “I have not noticed. Tell me what you noticed, so I can change that.”

Yuuri thought about it long and hard. Viktor would not touch him longer than was entirely necessary for some reason, but Yuuri could hardly bring that up, now could he? That would have been extremely weird.

But he had to say something, right? After all, he had started this. “Well...” He shrugged. “It's just a thought... I might have offended you and I don't know how, so please tell me.”

Viktor shook his head. “You did not offend me and you did nothing wrong.” He sounded completely sincere, but nonetheless Yuuri had the feeling that something was not right. But there was no way he could get Viktor to tell him if he did not want to, right?

Yuuri nodded in defeat. “Alright. Let's start with that first thing, yes?” He even managed a smile. “I think I can do cheerful better now.”

“I do hope so.” Viktor's smile was as warm as it always was. That gave Yuuri some hope that things were not completely ruined, despite the sinking feeling in his gut. “Next time do it on stage then, yes?”

Yuuri nodded. “I will.”

“Great, let's get started.”

Yuuri waited for a moment until he realized that Viktor would not pull his shoulders back today. Well, maybe his posture was good. Viktor had not pulled Yuuri's shoulders back before the performance. Maybe he was just alright today, nothing to pull back.

“Straighten your posture, will you,” Viktor said from his spot behind the cembalo.

It again was enough to knock the air out of Yuuri's lungs. He stood there, nodding and listening to the cembalo notes filling the room.

He missed the moment where he was supposed to start and the music died down.

Damn.

Viktor looked at him with a deep frown on his face. “You really are out of sorts tonight. Are you sure you are alright?”

“No!” Yuuri blurted out, “I am obviously not, but neither are you and if you don't tell me what I've done wrong, I...” He what? He could not work on what he had done wrong? He had brought that one up already and Viktor had not answered to that, so that was pointless. He would not tell what was wrong with him? Now that was a special kind of stupid, even by Yuuri's standards. Viktor knew Yuuri frazzled easily, that was nothing new for him to talk about. Viktor had made an attempt at contact after Yuuri had had a breakdown, so he should be familiar with it. And Yuuri's nerves were still not his fault.

Damn. Just damn.

He heard steps and then felt Viktor's presence next to himself. “Sit down.” He felt a hand on his shoulder and was gently coaxed towards the couch. Strange how his feet moved but it they didn't seem to belong with his body. Or rather, they belonged with his body. It was just that Yuuri did not.

Viktor sat down next to him, hand still on his shoulder.

Faintly Yuuri registered that he was shivering.

“You did nothing wrong,” Viktor repeated and again Yuuri wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that Viktor was not offended or angry with him, but his sincere, smooth, warm voice did very much not match his behaviour.

Yuuri's face had to have betrayed some of his thoughts.

Viktor, still looking at him, sighed. “Really.”

When Yuuri did not immediately answer, he sighed. “Before you said that by and for yourself you would not seek out solo roles.”

“I guess I did,” Yuuri mumbled.

“What do you mean by that?”

Yuuri now managed to look up. His face must have looked horrible, judging by the way Viktor's eye widened. “Isn't that obvious? Have you looked at me during the past few hours?!”

“I have.” Viktor took his hand away. “I have looked at you for quite some time, in fact.” He sighed. “And can only repeat myself. You have done nothing to give offence.”

“Then what is your problem?” Yuuri noticed that he had raised his voice and swallowed. “Sorry.”

“There is no problem,” Viktor reiterated. “Or rather no problem you can help with, sadly.”

“Try me,” Yuuri offered, “you could try before you say something like that.” He lifted a hand to Viktor's face, but paused in the movement. He was on the left side. Viktor did not react to him and Yuuri let his hand fall. “Alright. Don’t tell me then. We should get back to singing.”

“Are you sure? If you are too distracted to work it would be better if you got home. Be more alert tomorrow.”

“And what am I here for if not to sing?” Yuuri snapped and this time he did not apologize.

Damn him. Damn him for being so damn confusing and infuriating and for Yuuri being so in love with him.

Viktor looked as if Yuuri had just poured cold water over him.

Yuuri sighed. “Let’s just get to work, shall we?”

“Alright.” Viktor got up and went to the cembalo.

They did not work long, only going through the chorus pieces of the  _Wildschütz_ . Apparently Yuuri managed to channel his irritation at Viktor into the necessary cheerfulness, since Viktor did not admonish him for not being exuberant enough. Either this or Viktor shied away from yet another argument.

However, after Yuuri had sung the last cheers the villagers had for their Count, Viktor got up. “That has to be enough,” he declared. “It is really late and you have rehearsal tomorrow morning.”

“It’s not like this never happens, right?” Yuuri argued. “I often stay late and am fine the next day.”

“But usually you are not as drained as you are now.” And now, now of all times, Viktor decided that he should step closer, close enough for Yuuri to feel the warmth radiating from his body. Damn this man.

And now he smiled at him in this way that made Yuuri's insides melt and his heart sing, despite how annoyed he was.

“Please,” he whispered, “you need to rest. Go home, please, and get some rest. Please.”

Yuuri saw how he raised his hand, then paused and let it fall again.

“If you insist.”

“I do,” Viktor said. “I can't help you with what troubles you right now and I don't think you can help me with mine, but I can see to it that you are rested and in good health.”

Alright.” Yuuri moved his hand, just so, and it brushed against Viktor's very casually. “I take my leave then for today.”

Viktor's fingers twitched, as if longing to wrap themselves around Yuuri's hand. Now was that good or bad? “Get home safely.”

Yuuri nodded. “I will.”

He then left, quickly and without turning back.

The night air was heavy, thick and oppressive as he slipped out. Maybe his spell of breathlessness today had something to do with the weather? It was quite possible, and a more bearable explanation than heartaches and rejection as causes.

Yuuri forced himself to take deep breaths as he walked home and arrived at the boarding house well past midnight.

Viktor did not dislike him, at the very least. That was in itself good, even though the way he currently behaved was no less irritating. He could work things out from here. If he had misread whatever signs Viktor had sent him and there was no mutual interest, well then. Yuuri would be very happy to be his friend, if there was need for him to fill such a position. If he indeed did return Yuuri's feelings, that was good as well. In any case they would have a lot of talking to do.

 

He was wide awake for practise next morning and Mr. Feltsman nodded along as they went through the chorus songs for the  _Vampyr._

“Good!” He finally called, “Good, you all, good for today!” Then he cleared his throat. “I try out next Thursday for the _Undine_. The one by Hoffmann. The decent one.”

“Always encouraging to know his tastes, eh?” Andreas joked.

“Two baritone roles are open. You want one, prepare and sing.” He shot a glare around. “That all.”

They were dismissed into the Saturday noon and – depending on their schedule – the remainder of the day.

“So, you gonna try out?” Thomas asked.

Andreas shrugged. “Might as well. At least here you actually stand a chance to get the spot, unlike in Leipzig. You guys? Johannes?”

“No.” Johannes shook his head. “I'll pass on this one and...” He sighed. “Now might be as good a time as any. I had a talk with Mr. Feltsman the other day. I'll be on leave for a while from the middle of July.”

Around Yuuri swelled a chorus of “What?!” and “Why?!” and heard his own voice among the others, more on the “What” side rather than “Why?”.

“Family business,” he said. “I'll be out of town for a bit and come back once it's cleared up, I promise. But that might take some time.”

“What did Mr. Feltsman say?” Alexander asked.

“He wasn't thrilled, of course.” Johannes sighed again. “But he agreed to let me go by then and that I can come back to my spot without trouble when the whole thing is sorted out.”

There hung a bit of silence between them and finally Andreas sighed, “Well, well, at least we know who's paying up the rounds tonight.”

“Hey!” Johannes protested, “You think I'm swimming in money or what?!” But he was laughing, relief etching his features. “One round!”

“Fair enough,” Alexander. “Yuuri, don't you dare ditching us tonight!”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Yuuri retorted, truthful enough.

“Yes, he's back!” Andreas clapped his back. “And here we were starting to worry that your girl was sucking you dry.”

Briefly an image related, but quite different from that suggestion flashed before Yuuri's eyes, but he pushed it aside in an instant. “I assure you, no sucking of any kind or form is taking place with me,” he said, bowing gravely much to Andreas amusement.

They parted ways for their personal businesses and Yuuri again wandered through the town, fetched himself a bite to eat before returning back to the theatre.

Coming home last night he had found a letter from Milan, but had been too tired to read it and just had taken it with him.

Now was as good a time to read it as any and around this time the foyer was empty and bright and the perfect spot to read a letter without someone sneaking up on him from the shadows. Not that he expected Viktor to sneak up on him from the shadows. Or even hoped for it. Not at all.

Celestino's cursive was always a welcome sight to his eyes, right now even more so.

_My dear Yuuriccino,_

Yuuri smiled inwardly. One day Celestino would realize Yuuri wasn't ten anymore and that such a nickname might be adorable, but clearly not appropriate. Then again, he had mentioned that when he had turned nineteen. Celestino, laughing, had suddenly looked very serious and answered, “My boy, I've raised you. I washed you, I cleaned your soiled clothes, I tricked you into eating your carrots, I wiped your nose and even now I take care of you when you get frazzled again. I do think I have earned the privilege of addressing you by any name I see fit until the day I die. Are we clear?” He then had broken into a grin again and Yuri had dropped the topic.

Maybe he would bring it up again once he finally got a solo role.

_Amazingly enough, Milan is still standing and in somewhat presentable condition without you here to calm me down when the current Primadonna is having a fit again. You are gone for three months now and your absence is still keenly felt. By your last letter, though, I am reassured that it was the right decision to send you to Dresden. It seems you are flourishing under Mr. Feltsman and if the occasion ever arises I will be looking forward to seeing you in Dresden._

So Celestino missed him. The thought made Yuuri smile. It was a nice sentiment and it brought back a few memories of Celestino blustering and fussing and hissing about whatever a lead singer had done, not done or demanded. Not to mention the times Yuuri had witnessed – with eyes and ears – how Celestino would get into a heated shouting match with one of the singers and how he at some point had felt compelled to do something to diffuse it, be it by breaking down crying as a child or coming in on some fictitious errand or to offer refreshments, lest their throats would go sore. Oh yes, it was a bit of a miracle that the Scala was still standing.

_Most happy I am to hear you assessing yourself and your abilities in what seems to be a very confident, secure manner, gauging what you can do and when you need a break. Maybe I should have let you decide on this back here earlier. It might have helped you better than me deciding for and pushing you to work._

Undine  _is a lovely work, albeit still too fantastic for my tastes. Trust the Germans to make fairies and elves into lovely, tragic maidens and spin tales around them. This will never cease to baffle me. However, I applaud your decision to not try out for the_ Vampyr _. Not only do I trust your own judgement regarding your performance abilities, I really do not think this work is worth your attention under any circumstances. If you ask me, this whole thing could do with one or two plots less and maybe a bit less romance._

Ah, yes. Being raised by Celestino Cialdini definitely had left its mark on Yuuri's judgement of music. Which was definitely not a bad thing.

_(I am very aware of the irony of me petitioning for less romance, please stop laughing, my boy.)_

Yuuri quickly wiped the smile off his face.

_I wish you good luck for the try-out._

_Right now we are preparing to stage Rossini's_ Otello _and it is a bit of a hassle. Whenever Montagno has his aria, someone is bound to start meowing. Same happens when the duet with Iago is up. Sometimes I regret having ever introduced the_ Duetto buffo _to the Scala. Then again, the youngest members of the chorus are always so delighted to sing it. I suspect them to sometimes start their little feuds just to get a pretence for studying it._

Now Yuuri had to snort. Yes, the  _Cats duet_ was a favourite of his, too, and who would blame him, really? Potentially, no singer who had worked at the Scala for any significant amount of time was unfamiliar with it and did not like it. It was just too damn funny.

Briefly Yuuri noticed that he actually had kept count on the times he had cussed this week. Was it just his imagination or was the number he could confess this week really significantly higher than it was usual for him?

_It goes along well, but our Primadonna is giving me a headache. Again. I know that Sara Crispino is singing in Dresden in the Royal Court Theatre. She is singing with you and I know from reliable sources that she is a delightful, kind and very sweet woman, as well as a terrific voice. Please recommend the Scala and my person to her if you get the chance and ask her what conditions she would have to be employed here. I am very interested in hearing them and will do everything in my power to fulfill them._

Yuuri suspected that La Crispino would mainly demand good roles, salaries and housing to be provided both for her and for the promising young ingénue of Mila Babitch. Good salaries were potentially optional.

_Do well, my boy, and be well. Keep writing to me, for I hear from you far too rarely. Give your friends my regards and my thanks for taking you under their wings._

_With lots of love,_

_Celestino_

Smiling Yuuri tucked the letter away. It definitely had improved on his mood, enough to brave tonight’s performance no matter what Viktor would or would not do.

After the try-out he would write back. Celestino was right to complain; Yuuri took up the pen not nearly often enough.

He could talk about his friends here, maybe Celestino would find amusement in the idolatry Andreas had for potatoes in all their shapes and forms. Maybe he could even talk about Viktor, as much as possible without revealing his unconventional habitation. It would certainly be nice to have someone to talk to without having to pretend the person he was talking about was some random girl.

Which left the question how Celestino would react to that titbit about his protégé, but Yuuri had an inkling that Celestino had his own ideas about why Yuuri had never shown much interest in any girl around them, his general shyness aside.

Maybe he would be fine with it. Or maybe not entirely fine, but maybe he could live with it.

Or maybe not.

Yuuri sighed. In any case, there was no point in beating around that particular bush as long as things with Viktor himself were so damn unclear.

It was time to get back anyway, back to where the shadows were and nooks and crannies in which people could hide and sneak up on some unsuspecting - or not - victim.

Time for Yuuri to be sneaked up on.

Like he had for the whole week, Viktor kept him waiting and it was almost time for Yuuri to change before he heard steps.

“There you are.”

Viktor remained shrouded in shadow, but Yuuri could practically hear the sheepish smile in his voice.

“I wasn’t entirely sure whether you still would want to see me.”

“I guess I was quite mad yesterday.” Yuuri couldn’t help but sound equally sheepish. “You were right. I did need to sleep.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

So now they each had spoken their apologies, albeit in a rather roundabout fashion. Did that mean that they were good with each other again? Was it really that simple?

He sighed inwardly. Would be too good.

“I think I should go now,” he finally said, “will you listen tonight?”

“I always listen,” Viktor answered. And then he asked, “Would you come a bit closer?”

Yuuri's heart leapt and he followed the request.

“And...” Viktor cleared his throat. “And if you would turn around?”

Now Yuuri's heart stopped it's current leap mid-air and hung there as he obeyed.

For a moment nothing happened and maybe he was being made fun of?

Then Viktor's hands fell on Yuuri's shoulders and he felt the pull back. And with this, Yuuri's world ever so slightly fell back into place.

“You were slouching again.” His voice had that soft, gentle lilt again, that flowed down Yuuri's spine like warm honey. “Don't do that to yourself.”

“No. Thank you.” Yuuri let out a breath. “I am fine now.”

“I'm looking forward to hear you. Have fun and work hard.” With that Viktor withdrew his hands and then moved back into the shadows.

It had the strange effect of Yuuri actually feeling somewhat lost, but it was alright. In a way it was a good kind of feeling lost, the kind of missing something that one knew existed and was supposed to be where its absence was so keenly felt.

Yuuri could deal with that and with head and shoulders high, he left to get ready.

 

Johannes was true to his word and paid up for one round of sharp, eye-watering peppermint liquor that had Yuuri cough after only one sip and refuse to drink anything else that evening, the occasional sip on his godawful beer notwithstanding, to keep his throat from drying out.

“So, no wedding for sure?” Yuuri asked as they parted ways. Yuuri had turned back towards the theatre almost on instinct when Johannes had gone that direction. Looking up there the building was entirely dark, not even the slightest hint of light came from any of the attic windows.

“No. We might get him to pay some small pension or invest into something for the child. If we don’t contact him any further, that is. Johanna is…” Johannes sighed.

“Not amused?” Yuuri tried to help out.

“Furious would be a better description if she was more prone to outbursts.” He made a face. “I think it would be better if she was. Instead she… well, you have met her. I’m sorry. I know she’s rude.”

“She’s under stress.”

“That doesn’t mean she can go around and plisetsky all over the place,” Johannes argued. “Nobody should plisetsky all over the place, not even Plisetsky, but well…”

“He’s Plisetsky,” Yuuri nodded. But the boy could be so different sometimes. Occasionally Yuuri could even suspect that Plisetsky actually liked him. And he clearly liked Viktor, brash as he might act towards him.

He would have liked to see that side more often.

“So what you gonna do?” he asked.

“Eleonora has a small estate in the countryside. Only a few hours away from Dresden with a good coach and a bit further up north you’re in Brandenburg already. It’s nice. I’ve been there before. It neighbours a small village. Large park, nice forests and riversides around it. And the church looks nice. Johanna can give birth in peace there. Hopefully find some as well.” He swallowed. “In case we don’t find a husband for her, Eleonora would take it in.”

That sounded possibly idyllic. It would certainly keep both mother and child out of immediate trouble.

“She must really like you,” Yuuri remarked.

“She still is not thrilled about the pregnancy or how it came about. Johanna was too naive. And maybe she was, but…”

Yuuri shook his head. “It’s not her fault that someone took advantage of her.”

“She should have known. There’s innocence and then there's just straight-up silliness. Thinking that a rich nobleman would marry her, just because he said so and because he slept with her...” Johannes rubbed his face.

“You don't believe that yourself,” Yuuri pointed out. “You don't blame her and you know it.”

“No! Yes! I don't. I just... I just wish she had not simply believed him.” Johannes sighed. “People in love are crazy. All they do is stupid stuff.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Yuuri sighed. “Like adopting the illegitimate child of the sister of their protegé.”

Johannes shrugged. “Well, Eleonora did want a child from me, but that's of course not possible right now.” Even in the darkness Yuuri could see him blush. “I mean, it's not like I could just marry her and her getting pregnant without husband – widow or not, imagine the scandal.”

“Would you marry her if you could?” Yuuri asked.

Again, there was a far too nonchalant to be honest shrug from Johannes. “I never thought about it, because – really, no reason why I should have. There'd have to happen a lot before I could marry her, I mean...” But still, he tilted his head. “I think, yes, actually. She's headstrong and knows her way around. I like that. And...” Now his shrug was very insecure and very genuine. “I think living with her out in the countryside would help me answer that question.”

“I will miss you, though,” Yuuri mumbled. Johannes, along with Georgi, had been one of the first people who had been friendly and open to him and one of the few friends Yuuri had been able to make in his life.

“I'll miss you too.” Johannes wrapped his arms around Yuuri's shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug. “And honestly, I do worry a bit about you. Will you be alright?”

This had Yuuri laugh. “Please, I think I can deal with our idiots just fine. And if not I can write to you and complain about them, so you can always share into my suffering.”

Johannes chuckled. “Sounds about right. So, you will write me?”

“Once you give me your address – and I just realized that we're talking like you'll be leaving tomorrow instead of in two months.” Yuuri patted his back and then pulled away. “But in all seriousness, yes, I will write you.”

“You better.” Johannes now let go of him. “In any case, it's late and you have to walk back home. See you on Monday.”

“See you Monday. Good night.” They parted ways and Yuuri wandered back to the boarding house, had himself let in – bracing himself for the tongue-clucking of the gate keeper that doubtlessly would ensue as soon as he saw his face and realized that The Oriental had been out late again.

Two months. Yuuri sighed. Well, at least he had time to get used to the thought of not seeing Johannes again every day. Well, he dreaded that prospect far less than he had dreaded leaving Milan, but he could still see a hole in his life where Johannes still was and soon would not be anymore.

Maybe because when he had left Milan he had not known what would await him. Maybe he would not have been as terrified if he had. With Johannes – Yuuri would miss him, definitely, but his world was not being turned inside out again. And Johannes would come back, after all. It would be alright.

 

On Sunday he confessed the exact amount of times he had cursed, both in thoughts and words, and the priest, somewhat less bored than usual for him, asked, “How come you know the exact number of times you have cursed and cussed this week?”

“I kept count.”

“And why, my son, would you do this?” Now the priest sounded equal parts flummoxed and intrigued.

Yuuri shrugged. “Well, I noticed that I had cussed a lot and wanted to keep track. Maybe so I could tone it down. I don't like cursing and I prefer to not do it myself, so...”

“So there has to be a reason for you to use foul language, I take?”

“I think so, yes.” Scratch that, there was a reason and the reason was a baritone with pale hair and a tendency to act and behave in ways Yuuri found frustratingly confusing.

“Now, my son, would it not be wiser for you to focus on what causes you to use and think in foul language, instead of the foul language itself?”

“Oh, I do think so.” Yuuri sighed. “I do, father, but it has something to do with another person and I do not think myself in the position or blessed with the ability to change the way people act towards me.”

“Is it many people that frustrate you?” The priest asked, “Or is it only one?”

“Only one.” Thank goodness, if any more people around him were like Viktor Yuuri would have grabbed all his stuff and headed off straight back to Milan, no matter what Celestino had said about him suddenly showing up again.

“Well then, my son, if it had been many people the problem would have been you. In that case you would possess the power to make a change. However, in this case, the question would be why the person is so infuriating and why you let it affect you so much.”

Yuuri stared down at his hands an was very glad that the priest could only vaguely see his face through the screen and the darkness. Yuuri would have loathed for him to see how warm his cheeks had grown. “Well, it is someone very dear to me and I thought we were somewhat close. However, this person suddenly acts rather distant and wont tell me why or even if I did something to give offence – or rather, apparently I did not, but I still think I did. Just that now apparently silence is in order to spare my feelings. Or so I guess.”

The priest sighed. “If this person is angry with you enough to change their behaviour, I wonder why you think they would do something to spare your feelings.”

“I don't know.” Yuuri shrugged. “Right now I am rather confused. I am very close to giving up guessing. It is a rather frustrating prospect to do so, though, I have to admit.”

“I see.”

Yuuri heard a soft rustle of fabric against fabric and from the side saw a slow movement of long-suffering exhaustion as the priest rubbed his eyes.

“Well, my son, the best advise I can give is to wait and see and be open for a talk without forcing it to happen. Doing so would only lead to more pain and more foul language. And as we are at that – two Paternoster.” After a moment of silence the priest added, “And if you do even one more I will not hear your confession next Sunday.”

“Yes, Father.”

Yuuri saw the movement of the priest making a cross.

“Now go and sin no more.”

Yuuri left the confessional, prayed his Paternosters in front of the High Altar and left a small donation in the box.

His Sunday was free, perfect for him to enjoy the hot afternoon sun and mull about it.

Well, of course he would have to wait for Viktor to tell him what was the matter. Forcing a conversation to happen had not worked, after all, and had only served to cause them both unnecessary anger and Yuuri stress.

But how to show he was open for a conversation?

Yuuri sighed. Now that was something worth being frustrated about.

 

Monday rolled around and since tonight's performance was Goethe, rather than one opera or the other, Yuuri had the afternoon and even the evening to his free disposal.

He had gotten himself a bite for lunch and then, after a quick berth through a small used book store he returned to the theatre, two new books in his pocket and sneaked to the basement. There he squatted down in his corner next to the case that contained Viktor's violin and protected it from dust and moisture.

And then he waited.

Unlike before any performance during the last week, Viktor did not let him wait. Yuuri had not even waited for half an hour, leafing through an edition of Goethe's Faust he had found for cheap. It was amusing enough and Yuuri certainly didn’t complain about it being an entertaining way to improve his German. Mephistopheles was a rather funny role and if this particular text would find music put to it, he could very well imagine Andreas playing him, along with Alexander or Thomas as Faust and Johannes as Faust’s assistant and friend Wagner.

_O happy the man who still can hope Though drowned in a sea of error!_ Faust just sighed, wandering with his friend through the fresh, lively landscape of an Easter Sunday.  _Man needs the things he doesn’t know, What he knows is useless, forever. But don’t let such despondency Spoil the deep goodness of the hour!_

Steps fell and Yuuri's gaze rose to meet Viktor's. “Hello.”

“Hello. Have you been waiting long?”

It was probably the most awkward greeting they had ever exchanged, maybe save for their first. Yuuri still smiled. “Not really. I had something to pass the time.” He held up his book.

Viktor smiled. “They are staging the first part tonight.”

Yuuri shrugged. “I didn't pay attention to which play they are staging.”

Viktor bent over to take a closer look at the books. “You've read this one a lot, I guess?”

“Not really. I read an Italian translation of it as a boy, but this is the first time I am going through it in German.” Yuuri ran a finger over a page that was already soft and slightly frazzled around the edges. “Bought it today.”

“I never got around reading it,” Viktor confessed. “Or sitting through the second part of the whole thing, it's just so...” He made a face.

“Classical? Regulated?” Yuuri offered dryly while getting up.

“Not like the first part. That one is a delight to read or watch, but – no, the second part is not doing it for me.” Viktor led him to the door and they ushered into the corridor.

“I kind of like it. Changing things from within set boundaries and in the process changing the boundaries itself? Why not?”

“In order to change things one would have to completely break them down and rebuild from the ashes,” Viktor argued. “If you leave any part of the old alive it will creep up again. It's like a weed in that regard.”

They entered the darkness.

“And how would you make sure people will not commit to even worse than what has happened before?” Yuuri took Viktor's hand without even thinking about it and without hesitation Viktor's fingers closed around his.

“Eh, I guess there's one thing or another to figure out. Didn't say it had to be perfect from hour one.” Viktor shrugged, Yuuri felt it through his arm and hand ripple up and seep into his own body. “But humanity has the talent to recognize what is good for both the whole society and the individuals. And after a while they will find the proper measures to negotiate.”

“They've found it a long time ago. Clean off some clog and you are good to go. The basics are always the same.”

“Then the boundaries are what needs to be smashed?” Viktor asked.

Yuuri shook his head, despite Viktor not being able to see it. “Too much danger for anarchy and even worse conditions and circumstances in my book.”

They reached the steep part and the only warning Viktor gave was a gentle squeeze of Yuuri's hand. It was enough and Yuuri easily passed the area.

“You probably don't even need a guide any more to come down to my place,” Viktor chuckled. “You know the way as well as Yura.”

“Maybe.” Yuuri summoned all the bravery he had for the next few words. “But I do rather like being fetched by you, you know.”

“Oh.” Viktor's voice was smiling the sort of nondescript, easy smile Yuuri saw occasionally on the Crispino or Johannes Erhardt or even Yuri Plisetsky when they were talking to patrons of the opera. “Well, I guess it's a good thing I get to fetch you then.”

“Yes. Yes, a very good thing.” Inwardly, Yuuri wanted to slap himself.

They arrived at Viktor's cave and Yuuri watched him as he wandered around, lightening the candles spread through his lair.

“Since the try-outs are coming up, I think we should focus on your baritone and how to put a little more strength behind it.”

“Sounds like a good idea. I do feel a little on the weak side with the Heilmann role, to be honest.”

Viktor shook his head vehemently. “Oh, no, no you are just fine, really.” If he sounded a bit too rushed Yuuri elected to neither comment nor did he try to think of it too much.

“Let's get started then?”

Yuuri nodded and began to do breath exercises and to warm up his voice while Viktor finished lighting up his lair and then proceeded to check and then tune his violin for potential damages.

Yuuri blew some more raspberries while Viktor was busy tuning, lest any of them would be distracted by the sounds the other produced.

“All tuned, I'm done,” Viktor announced and Yuuri went on to sing a few harmonies before breathing in and out a few times. Then he let out a soft breath, alone at first, before a tone carried on it, softly, lightly, translucent and then growing stronger and louder, filling the air for a moment before he took it back in.

The moment the sound had fallen asleep at last Yuuri took a deep breath. “Help...”

Viktor chuckled. “You know, if you did not always draw out this exercise for so long you would not almost suffocate on it.”

“Yes, but I can draw it out longer now than I used to, so apparently the risk of suffocation is greatly reduced,” Yuuri argued before taking another breath and repeated it with a lower note.

He wobbled there, but went through it.

“Hm, trouble with the lower notes again.” Viktor clucked his tongue. “How's the high end of your range?”

Yuuri made a face. “Worse, as always. I sometimes wonder why I wasn't trained just as a baritone instead of this half-baked... thing.”

“You have a large voice range. It would be a shame not to utilize it.” Viktor waved a finger. “If I ever have the chance to meet your guardian, remind me to bring him a gift to declare my gratitude for how he has brought you up.”

“The Holy Virgin may help and protect me if this day ever comes,” Yuuri sighed and took another breath.

The high note came out clear and steady, but thin and without much substance. Not a good day for him.

Viktor listened to him intensely and then lifted the violin.

Yuuri heard him picking up the note and developing it into a tune he recognized. More than two months in Germany had been more than enough to have him know several of their favourite songs.

“Sah ein Knab ein Röslein stehn, Röslein auf der Heiden,” he fell in, “war so jung und war so schön, lief er schnell es nah zu seh'n, sah's mit vielen Freuden, Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot, Röslein auf der Heiden!”

The three verses spun a dialogue between a boy who admired a beautiful rose in the field and wished to pluck it and said rose threatening to sting him with her thorns. It culminated in the boy plucking the rose and a remark that all her struggle did not prevent her from suffering.

“Another work by Goethe,” Yuuri commented. “I sense a theme for the day.”

Viktor shrugged. “It was the first thing that came to my mind. You could make use of your voice range and it has a lovely melody. A beautiful sounding text as well, although I do have to wonder how that old geezer treated the women in his life.”

“He had quite many of them. Says quite a bit, if you ask me.” Yuuri shook his head. “Alright, I am ready. Can we start?”

“Just a moment.” Carefully setting the violin on his desk Viktor came closer and then stepped behind Yuuri.

Then he asked, “Do... do you mind if...”

What? Yuuri was too surprised to ask what Viktor wanted to do and he just shook his head.

After another moment of pause, Viktor placed his hands on Yuuri's shoulders and pulled them back gently. “Alright. We can start now.” He let go of Yuuri and then went a few steps away from him again, picking up his violin. “Let's get busy, shall we?”

“We shall.”

Viktor started playing and Yuuri took a breath, held it and then set in. “Nun segne euch, der einzig segnen kann...”

He went through the parts sung by Pater Heilman, listened to the criticisms and corrections Viktor had to offer and started over again.

“Drop your voice to your stomach,” Viktor said, reaching out and then pausing. “Uh, do you mind, if I...”

“Go ahead,” Yuuri mumbled and tried very hard to continue breathing properly when Viktor's hand landed on his stomach.

“Have the tone come from down here.” Viktor said. “You get it right pretty often, but maybe you need some help to focus yourself. Sing again.”

Yuuri did, keenly aware of the hand on his stomach and the warmth spreading from it.

He was also aware of how Viktor had asked. He never before had asked permission. This had been quite confusing in the beginning, but as things were now, as they had developed and grown between them, it was almost as bad a rejection as him acting all casual and nonchalantly polite.

Nonetheless, he sang through his part, and sang well, and Viktor was pleased with him.

Yuuri left in the early evening, half content with his progress, half miffed with the way Viktor was acting towards him.

 

The next day he was not the only miffed person in the theatre, though, even though in all fairness, Yuuri could not remember a day when Yuuri Plisetsky had ever shown them anything but a somewhat grumpy mood. 

By now Yuuri was so used to it that it had almost completely disappeared into the background and he went about his business of singing and managed to give him a friendly nod. In return, he was shot a long, dark look, the meaning of which Yuuri could not fully discern. It was of little worry to him.

When he and the other chorus singers went on stage, they were in for a little surprise.

Next to Mr. Feltsman in his chair sat a few other people in fine clothing, none of them looking terribly official, though.

Yuuri recognized both the Free Lady Poellchau and - he smiled and nodded a greeting - Phichit.

He had a folio in his lap and was smiling up to them, as Yuuri nodded to him.

“We got visitors,” Mr. Feltsman rumbled. “You don't do bad! Do good!”

“Yessir!” Georgi bellowed from the piano.”

“Yes,” they all agreed, “Yes, yes, will do good.”

“You all warm? Good. We start with _Vampyr_ today!”

Around Yuuri there was a slight, discontent muttering; none of them were particularly fond of this mess.

Nonetheless, they began to sing the whisper hisses of the song and Yuuri watched as Phichit started to pull out a pencil and flap through his folio.

“Lichtscheu in der Mitternacht, Wenn nur Angst und Bosheit wacht, Schleichen wir beim Mondenschein in die finstre Kluft hinein,“ they sang, with Mr. Feltsman nodding along. “Ihr Hexen und Geister schlingt fröhlich den Reihn, bald wird unser Meister hier bei uns sein, hier bei uns sein! Kommt und schliesst den muntern Reihn, Eul' und Uhu, ihr sollt schrein, Joho, joho, joho! - Joho, joho, joho! - Heissa, heissa, heissa, joho!”

He did not complain with a single breath, but his eyebrow twitched. He had found something they would have to work on, but he would not embarrass himself or them by pointing it out in front of their visitors, who were were very likely looking for a young, promising singer to sponsor on their way to fame and fortune. No way he would have any of them look bad.

Nonetheless, he would not let them off without any criticism or any work on that.

And true enough, when they finished with the last “Dort nahet der Meister Im falben Feuerschein!” Mr. Feltsman rose from his chair and clapped his hands. “Fine, fine, fine, yes, fine, but too weak in the mid-section. Tenors, you need to breathe more! Breathe! You hear me, breathe!”

There was a general chuckle running through the baritones.

“And you! Softer!” He called at them. “Again from top!”

Georgi saluted sharply, jammed on the piano keys and they began again.

Phichit paused in his work and looked up. Then he started again while they sang and he was smiling and gave them a little wave.

After having finished this time they went on to the other pieces of chorus singing for the  _Vampyr_ , listened to what Mr. Feltsman had to criticize about them and then went through it again.

The Free Lady Poellchau blinked and clenched her jaw, as if to stifle a yawn.

A man next to her did not show so much decorum. Yuuri wondered what he was expecting a regular rehearsal for the chorus singers to be like.

Mr. Feltsman turned around to him. “Yes, yes. Rehearsal. Not interesting. Too good, my singers. Too little reason to yell.”

At least the man had the decency to blush at that callout.

The Free Lady Poellchau nodded. “Well, it is rather technical. Maybe one should come and see the dress rehearsals, instead.”

“Bah!” Phichit commented, waving around his pencil. “I prefer this. The dress rehearsals are already so well-polished and put together, but this, this is the process of putting them together, this is where the real hard work is done and work can not be done when there is shouting and disagreement!” The sing-song of his speech increased a fair bit. “Also, I do quite like singers being supported and coaxed to flourish rather than see them yelled into submission.”

The man who had yawned shot him a sidelong glance. “Well, Mr. Chula, it is obvious that you do not value someone like Mr. Wagner and his musical influence on us.”

“Yes,” Phichit hummed, cheerfully looking up to the singers on the stage and then back on his paper. “My good sir, you must allow everyone to have their own opinions and tastes, right? And how would you expect me to enjoy a musician so utterly German when sometimes I have still trouble understanding your people themselves?”

The man sighed. “You should spend less time in France or England, my lad,” he then conceded. “You would be much happier to lavish your whole attention on Germany.”

“For now, please lavish attentions on the singers,” Mr. Feltsman grumbled, “rather than distracting them and take their attention away from their work.”

“Of course.” Phichit smiled. “How could one not lavish them with attention! Look at them, are they not splendid, a potential future for the opera scene in the German countries, possibly Europe, what a delight!”

“You are not interested in their potential,” the Free Lady Poellchau commented dryly. “You are interested in sketching and painting them, admit it.”

Phichit laughed.

“Silence, please!” Mr. Feltsman called again. “Georgi, since someone declared Mr. Wagner to be so all important, play us something. The _Tannhäuser_ , if you please. The first chorus piece! _Zu dir wall' ich, mein Jesus Christ_!”

Georgi nodded and began the rather slow, gentle and dignified melody.

"Zu dir wall' ich, mein Jesus Christ, der du des Sünders Hoffnung bist! Gelobt sei, Jungfrau süss und rein, der Wallfahrt wolle günstig sein!”

Melody and text were certainly vaguely familiar to Yuuri, but that was probably due to the fact of it sounding like almost any other church song he had ever heard, both in text and in melody. And someone as famous as Wagner would never have dared to risk his reputation by ripping his music from somewhere else, right?

Then again, Yuuri himself loved the  _Cats duet_ and God knew this hadn’t been put together by Rossini himself.

“Ach, schwer drückt mich der Sünden Last, kann länger sie nicht mehr ertragen; drum will ich auch nicht Ruh noch Rast, und wähle gern mir Müh' und Plagen.”

Their small audience had actually fallen into something like a reverential trance. The Free Lady Poellchau made a cross. Interesting.

“Am hohen Fest der Gnadenhuld in Demut sühn' ich meine Schuld; gesegnet, wer im Glauben treu: er wird erlöst durch Buss' und Reu'.”

It was an interesting experience to sing something like that. Very liturgical, a German text which for Yuuri automatically meant Protestantism (just like Latin meant Catholicism to him) and with an equally Protestant degree of dust licking piety, all the while expressing a rather Catholic view.

If Richard Wagner had written the libretto himself, Yuuri was somewhat inclined to feel something like respect for him. That was, if this was an intentional mix-up of confessional nit-picks. If not, Yuuri would happily continue to mildly suspect him to cobble his music together from outside sources.

“Now that was lovely!” A woman in a rather frilly, pale yellow dress exclaimed. “How wonderful, really, why do you not sing in churches more often?”

Mr. Feltsman nodded up to them. “Acceptable. I talk later to you.”

Johannes made a face. “I messed up the glissandi again and now I wont hear the end of it, what do you bet?”

“I don't bet if the answer's clear,” Yuuri answered, chuckling.

“We do not sing in churches because we are theatre singers,” Mr. Feltsman explained. “Theatre. Not church.”

“But would it not be nice, listening to them on Sunday?” Yellow Frills continued.

Mr. Feltsman took a deep breath that spoke of long suffering. “On Sunday we not get paid. Singers are free on Sunday and would like to listen to services and sermons and rest.”

The man next to Phichit made a face. “Ha. I knew it was about money.”

“Well, if they sing in a church, they can also enjoy the service,” Yellow Frills tried to defend her idea.

“Some Lutheran. Some Catholic. Some Orthodox. Some not Christian,” Mr. Feltsman answered, his accent growing thicker by the word. “Leave matters to me. Enjoy music. If you like listening, sponsor one to have sing for you. All of them very happy about that. Alright!” He turned back around to them. “Wagner done. Back to actual work!” He took a deep breath.

The man next to Phichit opened his mouth as if to protest on behalf of Wagner’s music but Mr. Feltsman continued: “ _Wildschütz_ . Now. From top. Georgi!”

Again the man gave a sharp salute, grinning before he started playing again.

By now Yuuri’s body associated the music automatically with this stupid dance and he straightened his back and lifted his arms.

At least he was not the only one. Andreas lowered his hands, smiling sheepishly and Thomas still had his feet poised for the first dance steps.

They all chuckled and it carried over into their singing and Mr. Feltsman called, “Stop! Again! Concentration, men, work here, laugh later!”

Georgi started playing again and this time they sang properly, despite the fact that their legs and backs and arms still fell into the positions that led into the dance.

“So munter und fröhlich wie heute, Beim Tanze, beim Weine.”

Mr. Feltsman nodded, but his brow was slightly furrowed. Something was not to his liking. Probably he still did not find them energetic enough.

They finished off on “Und möge sein Ehestand eben - So heiter und fröhlich sein“ and watched as Mr. Feltsman wandered up and down before the stage.

“More energy. Wedding shower, more fun!”, he demanded – no surprise here. “Katsuki, work on your higher notes! Again!”

And so they sang again.

Their audience listened and nodded and smiled.

And finally got up and left. Yuuri could see Mr. Feltsman breathe a sigh of relief. “Good. Tomorrow try-out! Who wants stays after rehearsal!”

“Oh, how interesting!”, Free Lady Poellchau cheered. “Tomorrow, you say? Would you allow us to be here for this as well?”

Mr. Feltsman made a face as if he had bitten down on something awfully sour. Yuuri could emphasize. The prospect of the try-out itself was daunting, to say the least. His mind already threatened to go blank at the prospect. An audience to go with it? That sounded just perfect for him. Not.

Mr. Feltsman let his gaze wander over them, then over his singers.

“Not good,” he then said. “Singers are picked by me for singing because they sing. You pick singers for sponsoring because I don't know why. Keep doing it. Is good. But singing is decided by me.”

“Well, nobody argues with that,” the Free Lady Poellchau argued, but Mr. Feltsman shot her a look and with that, her up.

“Well then. You free for now.” He made a short shooing motion for them to leave the stage.

“Damn,” Thomas sighed, “That would be a chance to snatch a sponsor.”

“Yeah, this happened often when Mr. Wagner was still here,” Andreas agreed. “But at some point, these folks always start to think that they have some input in the casting for a production. It can get pretty annoying, especially when the soloists are at each other's throats already.”

“Leipzig,” Alexander nodded gravely. “In comparison, whatever happens here is tame.”

“Regale us with your tales next time we're out for dinner, yes?” Johannes grinned.

With a slight drop in his stomach Yuuri noticed Plisetsky leaning against a beam and staring at him. His stomach dropped even further when Plisetsky gestured for him to stay and wait up for him before he came closer.

From the corner of his eye Yuuri noticed Phichit coming closer as well.

Plisetsky seemed to have noticed him too, since he lowered his voice and leaned in closer to Yuuri. “Alright, whatever you two have a beef about with each other, stop it, it's damn annoying!”

Yuuri blinked at him. “What?”

“He's moping! You've ever had to bear with him when he's moping? No? Good for you! Because _I_ have and I _am_ and _you_ are to blame and – have you looked in a mirror recently?!”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “I actually was under the impression that you were not overly interested in what is going on between me and Viktor.”

“Well, yes, yeah. Sure.” Plisetsky nodded. “But only as long as there is something going on, because when there's nothing, he's unbearable. Fix it. I don't care what you do, just fix it.”

Briefly Yuuri wondered what would happen if he refused. Plisetsky definitely could not demand him to do something he did not want and if that happened to be solely responsible for Viktor being not annoying to him, then he was out of luck, obviously. Not to mention that this was very much not Yuuri's fault.

Plisetsky sighed. “Alright. Fine. Do what you want. Mope around, hell if I care!” he threw his hands up and turned around to stomp away.

Yuuri blinked and then realized that Phichit was still standing there, smiling politely and apparently waiting to be acknowledged.

He quickly nodded a greeting and came over to him. “Hello and how nice to see you and...” This was getting awkward. “And I hope you didn't have to wait too long?”

Phichit smiled and shook his head. “Oh no, not really. If anything I got a good view of Mr. Plisetsky being all angry and put out. Crinkled nose and such.” He opened his folio for Yuuri to look at. “Very fun to draw.”

Indeed, the first thing that Yuuri saw was a very rough, very quick sketch that was still unmistakably Yuri Plisetsky in sharp and angry profile. Not very detailed, but the way he threw back his head and his supposed-to-be-intimidating sneer were spot on.

“You've been here to sketch?” Yuuri chuckled. “May I?”

“Sure, by all means!” Phichit beamed at him. “I am not in any way a professional artist, it is more of a past-time of me.”

“But these are good!” Yuuri smiled, looking at a a bit more detailed portrait of Mr. Feltsman listening to his chorus sing.

Said chorus was rather detailed on another page. Phichit smiled. “You were all standing still for most of the time, much to my delight.”

Yuuri noticed his own face next to Johannes and behind Andreas. Did he really smile like that when singing?

“These are really good. Not that I know much about art,” Yuuri admitted, “but they look good to me.”

“I do not know much about music, but you sound good to me too,” Phichit replied. “Mr. Feltsman seems to work hard with you. You were not exaggerating when praising his influence on you all.”

“Do you only sketch?” Yuuri asked, handing him his folio back.

“Occasionally I also make use of the paint brush, but usually only when I am in London.” Phichit smiled ruefully. “Sadly any quarters I occupy elsewhere do not provide the space or the light.”

“Yes, too bad indeed,” Yuuri agreed.

“But then again if things were any different I would probably spend my days painting rather than taking care of business and if that happened, I would be summoned back home faster than you could order a cup of coffee. Can’t have that.” He shrugged, still smiling brightly. “As things are right now they work out just fine.” He dug through his pockets and found a golden watch, inlaid with mother of pearl and shimmering red enamel.

“Too bad,” he sighed, “I have an appointment with one of our business partners in a bit. It was a pleasure to talk to you again.” He offered his hand to Yuuri, who took it. 

“The pleasure was all mine,” he answered honestly. Talking with Phichit was extraordinarily easy.

“Well then, if you partake in this try-out tomorrow, I cross my fingers for you. Rest well until then and have a clear mind.”

Yuuri nodded. “Thank you. A good day to you.”

Phichit waved as he turned around and left Yuuri to his own thoughts.

Well, true. He would most definitely need a clear mind tomorrow.

Only one way to get it.

He turned back towards the stage where the soloists of the  _Vampyr_ were already singing through their parts, Mila Babitch clearly aghast at the sheer stupidity of her character. Same was probably true for Plisetsky, but what else was new? 

He had a moment's break, listening to Mila's Janthe, singing of her love for the mysterious Ruthwen to the mysterious Ruthwen himself – who would soon kill her, because apparently that was what a vampyr did. Not that Yuuri knew much about, what a vampyr in general did, nor did he care to find out.

On stage, Ruthwen finished his verse. “Ja, Teure, dein bin ich auf ewig, Und ewig, Teure, bist du mein!”

Mila Babitch rolled her eyes, but when she sang, her voice was sweet and clear and shivering with either longing or fear. “Als du dich zuerst mir nahtest, Bebte ich entsetzt zurück.”

Yuuri spotted Plisetsky leaning against a beam and listening intently, as Ruthwen continued to woo his poor, innocent and only vaguely suspicious victim. “Weiss wohl, Liebchen, dass du's tatest, Doch jetzt lächelt mir dein Blick.”

“Als du dich zuerst mir nahtest, Bebte ich entsetzt zurück!” Mila Babitch sang as Plisetsky looked to Yuuri.

“Still here?”

“I...” Yuuri swallowed back a gush of words that was still unformed and unclear and he as well listened to the young, fair soprano floating over their heads.

“Aber wie mit Zaubersbanden Zog es später mich zu dir. - Ja, ich folg' dem innern Drange.”

“He's around I take it?” he finally managed to ask.

“Meinem Herzen folge ich.” Mia Babitch sighed.

“Yes.”

Yuuri cleared his throat.

“Ewig, ewig ist er mein!”

“I'd like to talk to you tomorrow. Before the rehearsal. I'll be at the theatre early for this,” Yuuri finally said.

“Liebe lacht aus seinen Augen, o wie glücklich werd' ich sein!” Mila Babitch cheered, unaware of her impending doom.

“Not like you could not say it now,” Plisetsky commented.

Dear God, no, no, no, no, just no.

“I...” Yuuri shook his head. “I'll need to prepare that speech. Might need a night. Sorry for that.” Again he sighed. “I tend to need some time for things like that.”

Plisetsky seemed to ponder it for a moment and then he nodded. “Got it. Will be around, so keep close to the basement.”

“Thank you. I'll leave you to your singing then.”

“You do that.” Plisetsky looked on to the stage, obviously waiting for his turn to get to work and Yuuri quickly slunk away.

Yes, this was good. Tomorrow, he would go on stage with a clear head.

Tomorrow he would clear up a lot more things than just his head.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, thanks for checking in again and... before you kill me please wait for the next chapter. (also, the degree to which I felt Yuri in this chapter is ridiculous.)
> 
> In any case, it's June. That means it will be July soon. July is yet another CampNaNo month, I can be found here: http://campnanowrimo.org/campers/siberianchan I already opened a cabin there and got plenty of room. So if you want to partake and geek out with my and some other cool folks while doing so, just get started there and give me your username so I can send you an invite. I'm looking forward to you.
> 
> Until then, please enjoy the mental image of Celestino trying desperately to get little Yuuri to eat his carrots.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are cleared up. Took long enough.

Chapter 10

 

Yuuri barely slept that night and of course his head was anything but clear when he arrived the theatre early in the morning, a good bit before Georgi or any other chorus singer.

Nonetheless the house was already awake, brimming and bustling with business and preparations for the day.

Yuuri wandered around backstage for a bit, lurking in the corridors where the dressing rooms were, wandering up and down.

“Morning.” He turned around as Plisetsky came around a corner, staring at him in what had to be a new high point of annoyance.

Yuuri nodded a greeting. “Good morning.”

Plisetsky looked him up and down. “You look like shit, you know that?”

“Didn't have too much sleep.” He shrugged. “I feel alright, though.”

“Alright enough for a try-out?”

“Guess so.” Yuuri took a breath. “I'd like to have a talk.”

“Not beating around the bush for once, huh? My dressing room.” Plisetsky pointed over his shoulder to his door. “You gonna take long?”

“Don't think so, no.” Suddenly Yuuri's mouth felt very dry as he turned around and headed towards the door. “Thank you.”

“Eurgh,” was Plisetsky's only comment to that, “just stop it with the drama! Or have it far away from me, can't stand that shit.”

Somehow Yuuri sincerely doubted that, but he was in no mood to argue with him about it and simply went into the dressing room.

It was sparsely furnished, a large vanity containing several stage cosmetics, a small chaise lounge (accompanied by a small cabinet) and a closet, probably containing some costumes. A thick, green carpet silenced any step that might be taken here, while its rich dark hue caused the white furnishings to pop out in an almost garish contrast.

Viktor was standing there, leaning into a shadowed corner as Yuuri turned to him. “Good morning,” he said as soon as the door was closed.

“Same to you.” Yuuri swallowed. “Well, here we are.”

“Here we are,” Viktor agreed. A moment of silence stretched between them in which Yuuri’s insides decided that it was a good time for them to start twisting and turning and churning. “Well, you wanted to talk to me?”

“Uh, yes, I do.” Yuuri looked at him, all shrouded in shadow and drama. “I think I would prefer seeing your face for that.”

“Would you now.” But Viktor complied and came out of his corner until the lamplight hit his face.

Maybe insisting on Viktor coming out of the shadow had not been Yuuri’s best idea. He had trouble not staring at him.

He was handsome as always, but his hair was a tangled mess and there were rather dark shadows under his eyes that betrayed a few nights too many without proper sleep and he was wearing proper black trousers, rather than his beloved stripes. They looked good on him, really good, and rather distractingly so.

“So?” Viktor asked and brought Yuuri back to reality.

He looked really tired.

“Yes. Yes, I…” Yuuri sighed. “I know that you said it was nothing, but I still think I did something to offend you and whatever it was I am truly sorry and…” He breathed out again. “I better tell you now or I’ll take it with me and mess up and if you have an answer for me you better give it to me after the try-out, because otherwise I will be too mixed up to sing properly and we can’t have that, right?”

“Alright.” Viktor nodded. “So, what do you want to tell me?”

“I am very grateful for what you have done for me so far and how far you have brought me even in this short amount of time and…” Yuuri struggled for a moment to find the right words. “And if you wish to not tutor me any longer I can understand.” Which was true, he would understand that very well. But that did not mean that the thought of Viktor no longer tutoring him did not hurt. Yuuri felt his mouth twitch.

“What is it, Yuuri?” Viktor came a step closer and Yuuri had to force himself to stay where he was, rather than go a step back. “Tell me, please.” He was reaching out a hand towards him. It was at this moment when Yuuri decided that taking a step back was probably the best idea after all. Especially since it also brought closer to the door, increasing his chances of a quick escape once he had finished with what he had to say.

Viktor’s one visible, good eye grew a bit wider and then he nodded and sighed. His hand fell to his side. “What is it?” he repeated again.

“As I said, you don’t have to answer immediately, I’d actually rather you don’t. I mean, there’s enough time after the damn try-out.”

“Is it that? Are you nervous about that?” Viktor smiled his smoothest, most non-committal smile. “You worked so hard. You are a good singer and you have a good shot. All you need is to stay somewhat calm.”

Yuuri groaned. “I’m trying to, guess why I’m here! I’m in love with you.” Well, he had planned for it to come out a bit different, but now it was too late and the words hung between them.

Viktor stared at him, smile slowly falling away. “What?”

Yuuri’s ears grew hot. “I… I think I should go now.” He groped around, searching for the door handle.

Viktor seemed to be in a minor state of shock as he came closer, reaching out.

He had to get out, really, really, he had to get out right away, right now, right now…

His hand finally found the handle. “I’ve got to go.” With that he opened the door, slipped out and closed it again behind him.

It was out. He had said it.

Also he was still alive. Also his legs felt somewhat weak and his stomach had dissolved into a gelatinous mass that moved entirely on its own and without any regard for what he was doing.

A long, deep, heavy breath he hadn’t known he had carried around escaped him. For some reason, his shoulders felt lighter as well. A lot lighter in fact.

Plisetsky stared at him. “You done now? Good! See you later. I’ll watch the try-out!” With that he slipped himself into his dressing room and Yuuri slid towards the stage. His timing was good; he had been early enough for his talk with Viktor and to be there before anyone else would show up, but not too early for him to wait forever and get bored.

Johannes was the first to join him, grinning. “Hey, there you are!”

Yuuri lifted his hand and smiled at him. “Here I am and before you say anything, yes I know, I very obviously have not slept too well.”

Johannes shrugged. “I’ve seen you in worse states. What, you want to be in the try-out?”

“Guess why I haven’t slept so well.” Yuuri rubbed his brow. “What about you?”

Johannes shook his head. “No tenor roles available - you have no idea how I envy you for your voice range.” The headshake was followed by a shrug. “Wouldn’t make sense, what with me leaving soon. Even if I got a part and was successful and gained some popularity, disappearing afterwards and then showing up again some time later is not exactly good for one’s reputation.”

Yuuri nodded. “I’ll report on what new productions are announced and planned. The first thing you do when you come back is get to the next try-out and land yourself a solo, got it?”

Johannes laughed and threw him a salute. “Yessir!”

“That’s only funny when Georgi does it,” Yuuri chuckled.

The other singers trickled in one by one, they exchanged greetings and warmed up.

By the time Mr. Feltsman joined them, Yuuri’s stomach had calmed down considerably and he sang through his parts with ease. The fact that there were no visitors present today who might comment or complain or hint at music wishes, did probably help as well.

The rehearsal went by in a blink and when the chorus had finished their last piece with “Dem Ewigen sei Preis und Dank! Ihm schalle unser Lobgesang!“ Mr. Feltsman nodded, but his face was not entirely happy. “You all need to learn text better. Lot better! If you do not have the text tomorrow, I will be angry! Very angry!”

Yuuri had not faltered in his lines – his lessons with Viktor had drilled the words into his mind – but he had noticed some of his peers failing on occasion. Well, it happened, they had to memorize a lot and thus mix-ups could happen.

They all mumbled their apologies and their vow to do better next time and Mr. Feltsman looked at them with sharp, still not happy eyes. “Alright, then,” he sighed. “Try-out for the  _Undine_ ! Two tenor parts! Huldbrand and Pater Heilmann! If you wish to partake, stay! If not, leave. Or sit down here!” He gestured to the chairs around himself. “A moment break until other singers arrive!”

Most of the chorus left stage, but Yuuri, August, Andreas and a few others remained.

August shot him a dark look. “You actually wanna sing now?”

“I am not leaving the stage, am I?” Yuuri answered, smiling dryly. “So what may we conclude from my presence up here, rather than down there?”

“You should just leave this to some proper singers,” August continued. “You'll screw up again anyways, why bother?”

“Sure about that?” Yuuri smiled as Sara Crispino, in company of Mila Babitch, Yuri Plisetsky and Johannes Erhardt came sauntering in, Sara and Mila in animated conversation with Johannes Erhardt and Plisetsky making his usual face.

When he spotted Yuuri, his eyes narrowed for a moment before he leaned against a beam at the side exit, joined by Johannes Erhardt and the two women.

“You sing for the roles?” Mr. Feltsman asked, looking at them and they all nodded. “Good. You all warm? If not, get warm.”

Yuuri sang a few harmonies to get his voice warm and smooth and flexible again.

Andreas and August did the same and soon enough the group of soloists joined them as well.

If Yuuri heard correctly, Johannes Erhardt tried to get the melody for the Ode to the Joy started and made a bit of a face when nobody joined in.

“Good! That enough!” Mr. Feltsman called, holding a pencil stub and a small notebook in his hands now. “We do not have all day! Who first – Hermann, fine! What you got?”

August stretched and straightened before coming forth.

Yuuri watched him throw his head back.

“I will sing the part of Huldbrand!” he declared.

Yuuri saw Sara Crispino raise an eyebrow in what probably was friendly interest.

“Well, what will you start with?”

“The opening scene. I would like to present Huldbrand's part in solo.”

“Alright then. Georgi, you heard it!”

“Yessir!” Georgi called from the piano before he started playing.

August waited patiently for the moment he could fall in.

Sara and Mila whispered to each other before Mila nodded and got and on stage, followed by Johannes Erhardt.

“Ach Undine, holde Kleine,” August began to call out, “höre doch und komm ins Haus! Kehre wieder – Nachts im Haine wohnet Spuk und wilder Graus!”

Mr. Feltsman nodded softly to himself and the music, instead of progressing into the lines for the Fisherman's wife, repeated itself.

August cocked his head and looked around.

Johannes Erhardt smiled at him and opened his mouth to start singing the same lines again – it made sense, Yuuri thought. This first opening scene of Huldtbrandt and Undine's parents looking for the missing girl was an ensemble piece of three people and most of Huldtbrandt's lines were sung simultaneously by the fisherman as well.

They finished the lines and Mila Babitch sighed with motherly, affectionate resignation “Ja, die kenn ich! - Ganz alleine rennt sie fort und lacht euch aus. Eh gehorchen euch die Steine als ihr Köpfen wild und kraus!” As a soprano she was a bit too high for this alto role, but since the actual singer for this part apparently refused to wake up before ten in the morning they would have to make do with what they got.

“Alright, yeah.” Mr. Feltsman waved before jotting down a few notes. “Sara!”

The Crispino came forth, smiling brightly.

August did no such thing, looking at her as if he had been tapped in the face with slightly more force than strictly necessary. The look suited him incredibly well, Yuuri found.

“Well, since you wish to play my husband, I think we should work on a love duet, right?” she chirped and either her sweet, sunny nature kept her oblivious to the look August gave her or she was aware of it, but had elected to ignore it. “The scene after Undine talks to Kühleborn and ignores his warnings against a human lover would be fine, right?”

August finally managed to swallow back whatever unkindness he had felt laying on his tongue and nodded. “Whatever you say, Donna Crispino.”

“My, my, no need to be so formal.” She chuckled. “Johannes, you be our Kühleborn then?”

Johannes Erhardt bowed gravely. “The reason I wished to be in this play is that whatever role I play, I get the immense pleasure of being your father figure, my dear, and as such being completely ignored and disrespected as such.”

“How charming,” Andreas mumbled to Yuuri. “Alright. Georgi, you heard it? I’ll start on _So muss er stets bei mir bleiben_.”

“Yes ma’am!” Georgi called and played away.

The Cripsino chuckled and then cheered, “So muss er stets bei mir bleiben auf der Insel ganz allein!”

Johannes Erhardt as Kühleborn furrowed his brow. “Ach Undine, armes Kind!”

“Still! Was soll das Klaggetöne!”

They sang through this bit of dialogue, glancing to August the whole time who still seemed to question his life choices.

“Horch!” The Crispino thrilled, “Er kommt, um mein zu bleiben, lass uns beide nun allein!”

“Hüte dich!” Johannes Erhardt tried once again to warn her, but was cut off with a, “Still!”

This was August’s moment and he delivered. “Droh Gewässer nur und schwill!” he declared, “Dorther hört’ ich ihre Töne, sei getrost, du holdes Kind!”

“Flüchtiger sind Menschensöhne,” Johannes Erhardt warned once more, “als es Wind und Wellen sind!”

Finally, Undine sent her meddling, overprotective uncle away and was left alone with her human sweetheart who actually managed to look somewhat besotted with her.

“Was schau ich dort auf dem Felsenufer?” August sang and the Crispino answered, “Ja, ich bin es.”

They had a sweet, tender moment of falling into each other’s eyes which was disrupted by Johannes Erhardt and Mila Babitch briefly taking over the role of the chorus as a bunch of spirits tried to disrupt the peace.

Undine shooed them away and they were left alone again to sing to each other and pledge their everlasting love. Conveniently this went along with Huldbrand declaring Undine his true bride, rather than the noblewoman he had been engaged to marry before.

Yuuri could see Mila Babitch - who would play said noble bride - roll her eyes hard.

“Wie lieblich so zu plaudern,” they then sang, “In stiller Nacht allein. Rings weh’n mit süßem Schaudern die Wasser und der Hain.”

Admittedly, August’s baritone was full and smooth and easy on the ear and he meshed well with the bright, crystal clear soprano the Crispino had. Yuuri could actually imagine them singing the whole thing together. Potentially, the necessity to work close together would abate some of August’s dislike for her, at least if he was somewhat sensible and receptive to a kind, lovable person trying to get along with him.

“Und nahe blickt und nah entzückt geliebter Augen Schein!”

They finished and Sara smiled brightly at him. “Thank you very much.” She even hinted at a curtsy.

August kept his face rather controlled. “I am thanking you for assisting me in this.”

“Next!” Mr. Feltsman called and August made room for someone else.

Another Huldbrand. They sang through the same pieces and Mr. Feltsman made notes. This one joked a bit with Milan Babitch and seemed to be delighted to sing with the Crispino,

Sadly his voice did not share into the sentiment. He was thin in the high notes and his voice had a rather cold, metallic quality that threatened to choke off the Crispino in their duet.

He noticed himself and shook his head in disappointment when they finished.

“Great,” Andreas muttered. “I got the same colouring in my voice. Might as well give up now.”

“Don’t you dare,” Yuuri hissed back while another singer took the stage.

Now, his stomach decided, now was a good time to act up again and behave like inner organs were an unnecessary luxury that had to be gotten rid of.

Yuuri swallowed.

“Nerves?” Andreas asked with a sympathetic smile.

“Yes.” He swallowed again. His mouth was awfully dry.

“You want time to calm down or do you want it to be over with?”

Yuuri thought about it for a moment. “Now,” he then decided. “If I try to calm myself down it might get worse.”

“That’s our boy.” Andreas chuckled and gave Yuuri a push that had him stumble forwards a bit as the other singer left the spot.

Mr. Feltsman cocked his head in an awfully familiar fashion. “Katsuki?”

“Yes. Yes,” he answered quickly, heart drumming out a staccato that would hopefully not find it’s way into his voice. “I am trying out for Pater Heilmann.”

Now Mr. Feltsman furrowed his brow in what looked like an attempt at raising a single eyebrow. “Alright.”

Yuuri’s head started spinning. Not good. “You said Heilmann is sung in baritone this time, right?” Definitely not good.

“Did say,” Mr. Feltsman agreed.

Why was he looking at Yuuri like that, as if he was silently pitying him?

Either that or he was silently requesting him to leave the stage in favour of other singers, who could actually sing.

Yuuri could sing, though. Very well even. He knew it. “Good,” he said, “then I can sing it.” There was no way he would let go the hard work to waste that he and Viktor put into this.

Mr. Feltsman did not look convinced at all.

And of course, now Yuuri's knees started to get wobbly. Perfect. He forced himself to breathe in and out again, in and out, in and out. He and Viktor had worked hard on training Yuuri's voice to reach the lows of Heilmann's part without fail, they had hammered the lines into his skull, they had spent so much time and effort on finding the right intonation for the words to deliver on his dignified, slightly distanced joy and later pain. This would not be for nothing.

He drew back his shoulders almost without realizing. “I'll start on  _Euch segne der_ . If anyone could assist me in the following scenes, I can go on longer. If not, I will find something else to sing.”

Mr. Feltsman nodded. “Alright. Sara! Yuri, you think you can serve as a Huldbrandt for now?”

Plisetsky shrugged. “Eh. Can do.”

“Well, thank goodness!” Mr. Feltsman sighed as they came standing next to Yuuri. Mila and Johannes Erhardt joined them.

“Georgi! Go ahead!”

Georgi gave them another sharp salute and then let his fingers smooth over the piano keys.

It was the same melody in the same key.

Yuuri could do this, he could sing this.

_Euch segne der, der einzig segnen kann_ , was the line. How did it continue?

Georgi reached the point for Yuuri to start singing.

“Euch segne der, der einzig segnen kann,” he began. His voice was calm. Good. How did it go on? “Mit besten Segen heut und immerdar, Und führe froh hinaus, was froh begann!” Ah, yes, this. “Nun küsst Euch beid, ihr seid ein bräutlich Paar!”

This was done then.

Plisetsky turned to them, managing to smile. As always, it could have been sweet and charming, but it looked just so  _wrong._ “Musst ja nicht so scheu Süße Taub' erbeben. Hin fließt unser Leben nun in Lieb und Treu'!”

The Crispino beamed at him. “Tiefe Lieb' und Treu' Wie sie in mir leben,” she sighed, all the blissfully blushing bride, “Neues höh’res Leben, freudig macht's doch scheu.”

“Liebt uns auch nicht minder jetzt ihr frohen zwei,” Johannes Erhard hummed with paternal happily and Mila joined in in. “Seid hübsch wirtlich, Kinder, das hält froh und frei.”

Apparently Undine and Huldbrand were too enamoured with each other to hear that, which was shown by them repeating their bits.

Yuuri's head was light. “Halt an Lieb und Treu! - Fest du liebend Paar,” it poured out of him and his voice was clear and firm – and was that even his voice?! “Macht ja Lieb und Treue alles Hoffen wahr.”

This line would have been followed by Kühleborn voicing his dismay of humanity in general and probably Huldbrand in particular, but Mr. Feltsman waved and Georgi stopped playing.

“Alright, you said you could sing something else? Heilmann has no big arias, so do so.”

Oh hell.

Yuur swallowed. Something else, something else. Definitely not  _Va, Pensiero_ , that was not a good choice. And nothing from another role of  _Undine_ as well, considering that all the lengthy and impressive arias had gone to the women.

“Uh... I could sing from Rossini's _La Cenerentola_ ,” he suggested. “The role would be that of a valet to a prince. They switch places...”

Georgi raised a hand. “Sorry, never heard of that. Sounds fun, though.”

“Oh.” Yuuri took a breath.

Mr. Feltsman sighed. “Alright, we do not have all day. Has to be enough. Next!”

Any air still remaining in Yuuri’s lungs left him all at once. “But...”

But Mr. Feltsman was waving impatiently and of course Andreas was still waiting for his chance to sing and show what he got and no, Yuuri could not take that away from him, no.

He slowly turned around and left the stage.

Andreas passed him and quickly squeezed his shoulder before taking his place.

Yuuri leaned against a beam and then his knees gave out. His hands holding him still kept him upright enough for him to slowly lower himself on the ground without looking suspicious.

“I'll try out for Huldbrand as well!” Andreas declared. “And if I could persuade both of the dames present to assist me?”

“Of course.” Mila Babitch chuckled. “With which scene would you like to start with?”

Andreas smiled. “The scene from before continued. After Kühleborn leaves and Undine and Huldbrand are finally alone?”

Sara Crispino nodded slowly. “I will start at  _Verschwunden aller Störung eitler Wust_ then?”

Andreas bowed deeply. “Thank you very much.”

Georgi leafed through his sheet music. “Got it!” He started playing only a few keys before Sara sang.

“Verschwunden aller Störung eitler Wust! Nur Liebe hebt, nur Hoffnung froh die Brust.”

Andreas seemed entirely enraptured with her at that moment. “Was schau' ich dort auf dem Felsenufer?”

Yuuri could hear why he was worried; his baritone was of a rather hard, firm quality, like a thick layer of sandstone. He tried to lock his attention in on that, lest the whistling in his ears would grow louder.

“Ja ich bin es,” Sara Crispino answered and Andreas went on, “Vertrau' ich der süßen Traumgestaltung?”

“Ja ich bin es,” The Crispino repeated and went on, “O nah' dich mir, du holder schöner Mann.” Their meeting was slightly disturbed by some spirits hissing insults (provided by Plisetsky with much gusto) before Undine shooed them away and the happy couple was once again left alone.

“Nichts will ich dir verhehlen,” Andreas pledged with enough passion that his voice almost sounded as flaming as a mild spring breeze. “Du Mägdlein lieb und traut : Von einer Braut, oh süße Kleine, ja!”

The Crispino's Unine took the chance her sweetheart offered her to inquisit about any prior marital promises he might have made. “Der Herzogsbraut?”

“Was Herzogsbraut!” Andreas denied and then tried even further to calm his love's suspicions, “Die rechte Braut ist nah.”

“Wie lieblich so zu plaudern,” they then went on to sing together, “In stiller Nacht allein – rings weh'n mit süßem Schaudern die Wasser und der Hain.” Singing together the divergence was even more noticeable; Andreas sounded like he was intent to throw himself on the poor woman and crus her under himself. Granted, he would have had a hard time trying to achieve that.

“Und nahe blickt Und nah' entzückt geliebter Augen Schein!”

The scene concluded and Andreas took a bow before the Crispino. “I am forever grateful.”

The Crispino hinted at a curtsy and made room for Mila Babitch.

“The duet from the second act, I suppose?” the Babitch asked.

“Would have been my suggestion,” Andreas agreed.

He was playing on his charm, Yuuri realized. Maybe his voice didn’t fit perfectly with the Crispino’s, but he and the most important roles got on well and could transport the feeling of their scenes well. Smart move.

Georgi started playing and Mila Babitch transformed her usually cheerfully brash grin into a shy, yet utterly elated smile. “Wie?” she asked, “darf ich's wagen?”

Andreas offered her his hand and declared, Romantic Knight all the way, “Nie darfst du zagen Wenn dich mein tapfrer Arm beschützt.”

“Die Wolken dunkeln!” The Babitch exclaimed, worried.

“Die Waffen funkeln,” Andreas answered, “Und meine freudige Klinge blitzt.”

Rather violent way to proclaim his love, Yuuri had to give him that.

Mila Babitch sighed. “Ach gern, mein Ritter. Im Ungewitter vertrau' ich deiner holden Macht.”

“Dich zu beschirmen vor allen Stürmen macht mir zum lichten Tag die Nacht.”

Andreas sounded a lot better with the Babitch, Yuuri noticed. Their voices had the same steel in them, a firmly grounded, hard quality that contrasted the Crispino in a way that could almost seem deliberate.

They had a few more exchanges before getting to sing together.

“Wie drohend Stürme wüten - Wie bang verfliegt die Spreu, nur heller glüh’n die Blüthen Von Ritterhuld und Treu!”

Yes, voice-wise the two of them were like twins.

“Alright!” Mr. Feltsman called, “that was it already? Anyone else?”

They all had sung and so remained silent.

“Fine. You wait.” He got up and waved harshly, causing the soloists to get moving and follow him.

Yuuri let out a deep breath as Andreas sat down next to him.

“Heilmann is tricky to sing,” Andreas grumbled. “Small and no larger solo part.”

“Same with Huldbrand” Yuuri sighed. “Maybe except of the part being small. Urgh, I should have prepared something else, but…”

“Tough luck.” Andreas made a face. “But the bit you did sing sounded good.”

“I didn't miss any notes, at least. That's something.”

“And you sang through without breaking down,” Andreas grinned. “You're really getting better at this.”

Steps returned to them much faster than they had expected them to and they all looked up.

Mr. Feltsman glared at them and they got to their feet.

The soloists trailed in the background, leaning on beamposts and walls and watched as the show unfolded.

“Decided,” Mr. Feltsman declared. “Katsuki for Pater Heilman, Stadler for Huldbrand.”

Yuuri turned to Andreas. “Oh no, I'm so sorry...”

“Yes!” Andreas' face flickered, but then he broke into a grin. “Good job, Yuuri!”

“What?” Yuuri furrowed his brow. “What...” Then he replayed the words in his head. “Oh.”

“Yes.” Andreas' grin grew even wider. “Awesome!”

“Kästner!”

Andreas flinched as Mr. Feltsman glared another row of daggers at him. “Yes?!”

“You stay too. Everyone else, thank you, good work, I'll look forward to the next try-out for a production. Nice to see when hard work bears fruit.”

There was some sighing around them.

Yuuri heard some “Congrats!” and “Good job!” and “Now you gonna have so much more stress than us!” thrown at him as well as August and Andreas as the other singers shuffled out and the three of them remained.

Mr. Feltsman nodded gravely. “I made choice. Talked about to your fellow singers. Heard some opinions. Stadler, work hard! You sing well and fit Sara. We will see how you work with Mila, but you are good.”

August nodded with a solemn face.

“Katsuki, your nerves get in your way. Is better today. But work. Is annoying when good voice goes to waste for silly stuff.”

That actually sounded almost kind and supportive. “Yes,” he said. “I... I will work on it. Thank you.”

“Do so. And you, Andreas Kästner.” Mr. Feltsman raised his hand in a wave. “A word. Over there.”

He and Andreas went a few paces away and then Yuuri saw Mr. Feltsman talk animatedly while Andreas seemed to mostly listen.

“Huh. Would have thought he'd offer someone else the Heilmann part,” August commented. “You do not look like a priest, after all.”

“I apparently spend enough time around them to make up for that,” Yuuri replied, managing a smile. He watched Andreas' face fall before it tensed and then lit up again.

The talk seemed to go well then? Good, very good.

August sighed. “Well, the things I do for a career,” he declared before sauntering off.

Whatever he meant by that. Yuuri surely was not that bad of a partner in the few scenes in which they had to interact, as long as he did not freeze up again. Which he surely would be working on. He had yet to figure out how, but he would. Hopefully. Freezing up mid-performance surely would not help his reputation.

In any case, August bid his goodbye with a dismissal wave as Andreas came up to them.

“So?” he asked.

Andreas was smiling. Yuuri would not have expected anyone to smile after a private talk with Mr. Feltsman. “Well, apparently both our lovely ladies spoke in my favour, when Mr. Feltsman informed them about his decision. That's decent consolation in my book. And I'm to understudy the Huldbrand part.”

“That's good, right?” Yuuri asked, “You look like it's good.”

“It's pretty good. In Mr. Feltsman's language that translates to him making very sure you get the part next time. Or a similar part. And considering that he doesn't have to butt heads with Wagner about that anymore, I patiently await the next baritone lead.”

“Well... congratulations, then.” Yuuri managed to smile. “You'll be at the rehearsals too, then?”

“Yes. Farewell, sweet free time, hello hard work.” Andreas sighed. “Well, at least I can present yet another good reason why I still am not considering marriage. And maybe _I am working so hard that right now I have no time to find a suitable wife_ will shut my mother up.”

“Not the marrying kind?”

“Blergh, no!” Andreas waved. “If I want to be harped on, that's what mothers are for, no need to spend money on a woman to get that.” He shook his head and they watched as Sara Crispino attempted some conversation with August, before smiling politely and coming over to them.

“Congratulations, Yuuri. I'll look forward to be wed by you.” She smiled a bit brighter. “Let us just hope my husband will at some point share the sentiment.”

Andreas sighed. “I think August would have preferred to have a less Mediterranean Undine at his side.”

Sara merely shrugged. “Well, tough luck, he's the newcomer, he does not get to pick his partner. And if he can't work with people he does not like very well, he’d better remain in the chorus anyways. Congratulations on the understudy. I look forward to work with you.”

“Thank you.” Andreas grinned brightly and then scratched his neck and Yuuri watched him blush. It was adorable.

Yuuri chuckled. “I see you tomorrow then.” He turned and left the stage, heading down the corridors.

He was alone. No Viktor waiting in the shadows, no Viktor stepping closer.

He most definitely had listened to the try-out. He had said he would.

Maybe he had left after Yuuri had sung and already decided that he was not worth the attention spent on him after all. At least that would mean a clear answer and Yuuri could think about what to do with his once again free afternoons and evenings.

He should just go home. It was not even noon and he already was exhausted to the bone, the flutter of nerves now giving way to a fog of numbness.

Still, he at least wanted to tell Viktor how grateful he was for how far he had brought him. Afterwards, well, he would see when he got there. Right now Viktor’s behaviour did not lend itself to educated guesses.

He sneaked down to the basement, ducking into the shadow whenever he heard someone, waiting there for them to pass.

Only when he finally was there he recalled that Viktor had never given him a key. He would have to wait here in the hope that Viktor would come by in time.

At the very least he knew for sure that Viktor would come by here. His violin was up here, safely in its case and tucked away into its corner. Viktor only ever took it down to the cave to play and then would unfailingly carry it back up again to protect it from the damp air there.

As far as Yuuri knew he practised daily, often composing at the same time. He would come at some point.

Right?

He waited for a good, long time before finally, finally he heard steps coming closer. Not Viktor's, but familiar ones, and somehow he was not at all surprised when Yuri Plisetsky stopped and glared daggers down at him.

“Let me guess,” Yuuri sighed, “I was mistaken in my assumption that he has already headed down here and he is actually still upstairs?”

Plisetsky's mouth twitched upwards. “You're getting better at this. Finally. Now come, I bet he's halfway crazy. You kind of freaked him out. Guess who had to deal with it.” He waved and Yuuri got up, following him back upstairs. “Sorry about that.”

“Eh. It's Viktor. What else is new?”

This on the other hand, caused Yuuri to chuckle a bit.

“Congratulations to the Heilmann.”

“Thank you.”

“Don't look too excited though,” Plisetsky continued, “one might think you're happy about getting a solo part.”

“Uh...” Yuuri shrugged. “I am. But it might need some sinking in. I guess. And that was the easy part.”

“Yup, glad you caught on to that.” Yuri flashed him something that might be a grin. “He's in my dressing room. I'll be out here. Don't make a mess.”

He guided Yuuri back to his dressing room. “Lock the door when you leave. See you.” With that he waved and walked off.

Yuuri stood there, staring at the door and raising a hand. And stood and stared and held his hand up.

Damn, this was as stupid as the first time that he had met him. Maybe even more so.

With a deep breath, he finally tapped the door and then took the handle, pressed it down and then entered.

The room was as garishly Spartan as before.

Viktor was sitting on the chaise lounge, hands folded in his lap and he quickly rose to his feet the moment Yuuri entered. “Hello.”

“Hello.” Mouth dry, Yuuri quickly closed the door. “Again.”

Viktor curled his hands into fists, then let them fall open again and came a step closer.

Yuuri did the same. “I... well, I landed the part.”

“I heard.” Viktor managed a smile, but it was quite shaky. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you... I mean, I got so good thanks to you, so thank you. For everything up until now.” Yuuri swallowed and his gaze fell to the dark green carpet.

Viktor came another step closer.

“And about what I said, I...”

“Yuuri,” Viktor said, “could you look at me?”

Yuuri looked up. Viktor was very close to him again and one of his hands was reaching out to him, remaining in the air, in front of Yuuri’s face. Yuuri was so tempted to take it.

The hand moved a bit before finding his cheek.

His eye flickered over Yuuri’s face. and then he sighed. “I’m so sorry.”

Well, that sounded promising. “No, no, not your fault, really…”

“I caused you pain,” Viktor sighed. “I am sorry for that.” He ran his thumb over Yuuri’s cheek.

So either he was declined mutual affection in the most confusing fashion Yuuri had ever experienced or Viktor was doing and saying the entire opposite.

It was entirely too much confusion for Yuuri to handle right now and damnit, all he wanted was some clarity and if he had to kiss Viktor for it, then well, sure.

The next moment he had grabbed him by the front of the shirt, pulled down to himself and then paused for yet another moment. Viktor's eye was still wide, but he did not push Yuuri away, so Yuuri finally leaned the last bit up and brushed his lips against Viktor's.

That was it.

That and Viktor's arm wrapping itself around Yuuri's waist and pulling him closer and Yuuri's hands finding a place behind Viktor's neck to rest and remain there, even when Viktor pulled away a bit and looked again at him, eye bright and laughing as he kissed him again.

“Well...” Yuuri cleared his throat. “I... I think that answers my question.”

Viktor pulled him closer again. “Think so. I am sorry.”

Yes, there was that as well, good thing that Viktor brought it up. Yuuri probably would have forgotten about it until long after he had left.

“What was it anyways?” he asked. “You were so strange all of a sudden, I really...” He shook his head.

“Well...” Without letting go of him even one bit Viktor led them to the chaise lounge and had them sit down there. “Well, I... I was stupid. Yura will say that this is my general modus operandi, but this is one of the rare occasions he might be onto something.”

Yuuri wiggled himself into a comfortable position, which he finally found in the form of being very much wrapped up and covered and blanketed by Viktor. “Care to cue me in?”

“Well...” Viktor paused and then sighed. “Do you remember the opening night for the _Wildschütz_? The party afterwards?”

“I drank too much,” Yuuri sighed. “Plisetsky got me and brought me down to you before I could make too much of a fool of myself.”

“Yes.” Viktor chuckled. “You are very emotional when drunk.”

“Oh...” Yuuri's stomach turned fuzzy. Also the blood rose back up his neck and in his head. “I knew I said something.”

“You did.” Viktor pressed a kiss into Yuuri's hair. It tickled a bit . “You...” He cleared his throat. “You said you loved me.”

“Oh.” Of course. “Well, that certainly explains you calling me dear,” Yuuri sighed. “And prancing around naked.”

“Oh.” Viktor's cheek against Yuuri's head grew warm. “I apologize for that as well.”

Yuuri bit back a comment that the view had been actually rather enjoyable, if very unexpected. Later, maybe.

“Anyways, then it turned out you did not remember and I... I suppose had a moment of panic. I overstepped some boundaries, after all. Being naked and such.”

“And such,” Yuuri agreed.

“And then I had a moment of thinking.”

“Something Plisetsky will be very happy to hear, I am sure.”

“He did. He was not.” Viktor sighed. “I did some reflection on my behaviour before and came to the conclusion that I had overstepped several boundaries long before that and that maybe I should not have done that. And then you were not happy with me showing restraint.”

Yuuri pondered this for a moment. “You do realize that you could have just spoken up and asked whether I mind you being up-close?”

“I could have. I just...” Viktor shifted. “I did not. It was stupid.”

“A bit.” Yuuri turned around to look into Viktor's face. “Talk, yes?”

Viktor nodded and slowly blinked while pulling Yuuri closer. “I will. Promise.” Another kiss. “And just before you start wondering, I will not go easier on you with your lessons. The hard part has just begun.”

“I know.” Yuuri flashed him a smile. “Better get to it, I guess?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience with these two up until now. Thank you for your kindness and support. It means so much.  
> Anyways, they finally got their heads out of their asses. Good for them. I'm sure Yuuri now will have a wonderful career at the Dresden theatre, an ever rising star and at some point Viktor will find a way to lead a regular life in broad daylight again (away from the stage though, at least for now.)  
> They will be together and happy and nothing bad ever will happen to them and on top of it, Yura, as adorably bitchy as he can be, will finally grow up and be less bratty.
> 
> ...  
> I'm sure everything will be alright and the next chapters (at least 13 more and counting) will contain only fluff, adorableness and music geekdom.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for casual racism and discussion of systems that categorize some people as property. I really did not like writing these parts, so... heads up.

Chapter 11

 

Viktor was true to his word, not that Yuuri would have wanted it any other way. Now that he had gotten the part, the main focus of their lessons was on working on the colour of his voice, attempting to add some more volume and gravity to his baritone.

So, most of the time his lessons consisted of vocal training, singing scales up and down while changing his breathing. Viktor's hand tended to lie on his stomach or flutter over his throat, sending small bolts of warmth through him, and at first he had to force himself to concentrate. The touches were much the same as before, gentle, professional and lingering a bit longer than strictly necessary.

A change was that Viktor had taken a liking to kiss him in between his exercises, softly breathing over his neck before pressing his lips on the sensitive, smooth skin, enjoying how Yuuri startled in surprise and then leaned into the touch. Or he would gently turn Yuuri's head around and lean in close to his face, tempting Yuuri to breach the distance. This was usually towards the end of their lessons when they could take their time. Viktor loved to run his hands through Yuuri's hair and over his back and sides. The longer his hands remained there the dizzier Yuuri tended to get, though. It was a good kind of dizziness, a wonderful squirming in his stomach and a weakening of his knees that for some reason was a lot more delightful than when it happened to him in any other situation.

But it was overwhelming and precisely because of this that a bit scary. Scary enough for Yuuri to pull away at some point.

Viktor then would nuzzle his cheek and move his hands a bit higher and they would sit down somewhere – the table, Viktor's desk, the small chaise lounge – and talk, talk about Yuuri's progress and the next steps in his lessons, about how rehearsals upstairs progressed and how Yuuri got along with both the chorus singers and his future co-soloists.

When in late June Yuuri got a letter from Celestino, congratulating him on his solo and updating him on the events in Milan, he read it out loud and Viktor chuckled. “Formidable man. You seem very much like him,” he said, running a hand through Yuuri's hair. “Similar artistic tastes. And you got your sarcasm from him.”

“He's not my father, mind you,” Yuuri commented.

Viktor shrugged. “He raised you. That is a lot more important than to whom you were born to in my opinion.” He sighed and his breath whispered down Yuuri's neck, speeding up his own for a bit. “It sounds awful, I know, but Yakov was a much bigger influence on me than my parents. Which is not hard, considering there is hardly any influence you can have over your child when it is taken from you before his fifth name day.”

Yuuri let that sink in. “How did that happen?”

“Glorious Mother Russia,” Viktor replied, voice dripping with irony. “Some city dwellers, merchants, craftsmen and intellectuals, a handful of landowners and on the less lucky side some Jews and so many serfs that Russia would be empty if you took them all out. Yura and I have been taken out.”

Yuuri would have liked to say something, but the only thing he could come up with was _I’m sorry_. Hardly appropriate and thus he fell back on holding Viktor’s hand a little tighter and pressing a little kiss on it.

“Our Landlord took notice of my singing voice when I was four. I think me and some other children used to sing when herding our animals? I don’t know anymore. So I was packed up and brought back to his estate and according to Yakov spent the whole time and a few days afterwards bawling and screaming.” He chuckled. “Our Landlord fancied himself a grand patron of the arts and as such magnanimous enough to hire a Jew as his conductor and music tutor for his family. Even had his own, private little theatre built on his favourite estate. Staffed almost completely with serfs.”

Yuuri’s stomach turned cold. “That’s horrible.”

“On the flip side, we had good food and good clothes. We got a fine training and something like an education. We learned reading and writing at least. Later a friend of our Landlord decided to sponsor me a bit and paid for my education. He also provided me with my surname. All in all we had a good life, as long as we behaved as expected and remembered that we were still chattel.”

“It’s disgusting, that’s what it is.”

“Yes, it is.” Viktor's arms around him tightened their hold. “But somehow I got to be here now and it is unlikely I would be here if my life had been any different. I cannot help but being grateful for it.”

“Even for Richard Wagner?” Yuuri asked, chuckling.

Viktor was silent for a second. “I could have done without him,” he then conceded.

“Yura’s story is the same?” Yuuri asked and only a moment later he noticed that he had referred to Plisetsky by a nickname.

If the boy in question would ever find out about that Yuuri was sure that he was a very, very dead man.

“Yes. Only that he did not cry when he first arrived. He was silent for days and only stared at everyone as if plotting how to best kill every single one of them.”

“Not much has changed then.”

“He swears a lot more in all three of his main languages,” Viktor mused.

The laid in silence for a while, staring at the ceiling as it disappeared into the candle-cast shadows.

“It still is not right. A few lucky cases that were treated decently does not justify the whole thing,” Yuuri said after a while.

“No. But nobody can change the past and only very few people are blessed with the ability to change the present or the future.” Viktor pressed a kiss on his temple. “It is late. Do you want to go?”

“Too late,” Yuuri mumbled. “Too comfy here.”

Yuuri had taken to the habit of staying over when his lessons took place after a performance. He would climb the ladders and stairways and balance until he reached the attic room. They would have their lesson until late night. Then they would carefully, carefully slip out the room and sneak down, ever down, ever downwards to his cave. There, sometimes they would continue some more with Yuuri's vocal training, making use of the acoustics the high ceiling could provide. In any case, they would at some point end up on the chaise lounge, snuggled up together, sometimes talking, sometimes in easy, happy silence.

“Do you want to read something to me?” Viktor asked, his voice rising a bit at the end of the sentence. “Please? Pretty please?”

Yuuri chuckled. “The please was not entirely necessary, but yes. Gladly. What do you want?”

“Something from the German pile. I neglect that language too often.” Viktor sighed in something like remorse. “With you I speak Italian and with Yakov and Yuri mostly Russian when you're not around. Without some reading I probably would have forgotten the language a while ago.”

“Well, how about you read aloud then?” Yuuri suggested.

“Bah, my pronunciation would make your ears bleed.”

“We could practise. Not that my accent is much better, though, so be warned.”

“Yuuri!” Viktor whined and his accent thickened, “Is too late in the day for any sort of lesson, please?”

Yuuri chuckled. “Alright.” He wiggled in Viktor’s arms until he was free and got up, heading for the bed and lighting the lamp there.

Viktor followed him after extinguishing the lights around the chaise lounge and slipped under the blanket after shedding most of his clothes until only an under shirt and a pair of rather old and very carefully mended long johns remained.

Yuuri followed suit after having grabbed a book from the small pile Viktor tended to accumulate on his night stand. Most of them were library books, provided and later taken away again by mostly Plisetsky and apparently sometimes Mr. Feltsman, although Yuuri had yet to see the man himself down here.

“What did you pick?”

“Hoffmann. The _Sandman_ ,” Yuuri answered, holding up the thin, linnen-bound book. “Though I don't know why, whenever I read it out loud you can recite it from memory.”

“Well, I happen to _like_ this work,” Viktor declared, letting himself fall into his pillow. “Also, you can give Coppelius such a wonderfully hissy voice.”

Yuuri sighed and then leafed towards the part where they had last left off, reading aloud of a young man's struggle against his own madness and his inevitable succumbing to it.

Viktor laid at his side, an arm idly thrown over Yuuri's stomach, his head leaning against Yuuri's chest.

Yuuri's free hand lazily ran through his hair as he read, occasionally interjected by Viktor finishing a sentence or providing one half of the dialogue, but it grew less and less frequent as Viktor's voice got heavier and his speaking slower, his accent thicker.

Yuuri himself found his sight get a little blurrier as he ran his eyes over the lines. His voice was getting hard to get out and oh, his body was so pleasantly heavy and warm and numb.

“Sleep?” he finally asked.

“Mhm,” Viktor mumbled.

This was enough of a yes for Yuuri to carefully lay the book aside and – never leaning away too much from Viktor – blow out the candle, enveloping them in complete, all-encompassing, velvety darkness.

As he laid down, Viktor pulled him closer, holding him tight, breathing gently into his hair.

Yuuri wiggled a little bit until he found a comfortable position to sleep in and then closed his eyes, letting himself fall, guided only by the warmth around him.

 

In the morning after such evenings he would wake up to warmth all around him. They would get up and dress in time before Plisetsky would show up and bring breakfast. They would eat and then he and Yuuri would get back upstairs to go on about their day.

On days when he was not meeting with Viktor, Yuuri made a point of spending time with his friends. The last thing he needed was Andreas or Thomas getting on his case again for abandoning in favour of his ladylove.

June ended and July broke over them with a heatwave that made them all reluctant to leave the theatre after rehearsals. Yuuri and Andreas spent the time going through their part in  _Undine_ , long before the official work on it would finally begin. It was not a completely new production, after all; costumes and props all already existed and most of the singers knew their parts. Mr. Feltsman would start working with the chorus in a week and then, shortly after, put them all on stage together to go through it.

Until then Yuuri still had to suffer through _Vampyr_ .

 

Closing night for _Wildschütz_ was a raging success for them, curtain falling and then rising again for them to bask in one round of applause after another and taking deep, deep bows, before finally, finally the curtain stayed down and they could scuttle backstage and drop on the floor for their traditional post-milestone-performance stupor.

“Thank goodness, finally something new,” Mila Babitch sighed, “Not that I didn't enjoy being engaged to you, Johannes, but...”

Johannes Erhardt laughed heartily and pressed her shoulder. “I can't blame you, my girl, I can't blame you. Also, my wife would not be happy at all with me if it were any different.” He stretched. “Speaking of which, I will now get to my dressing room and meet up with the best companion any man can wish for and may you all be blessed with an equally perfect match and the will to work for it.”

“Sap,” One of the freelance singer commented before waving a short goodbye and heading off to their dressing rooms as well to change into evening suits and presumably to start cleaning up. With _Wildschütz_ their employment ended as well and their rooms would be given to the next person in need of one.

The Crispino sighed in relief the moment the were out of earshot. “Thank goodness. Let us hope our body of soloists will grow and grow more reliable.”

“And less sleazy in rehearsal breaks,” Mila Babitch added. “Yuuri, August, if either of you get the idea to behave unseemingly, I will re-arrange your faces personally.”

“By all means,” August jeered, “do so, he can only improve on his looks.”

Yuuri decided to take it with a face of good humour. “Excuse you, some people do like my face.”

“And character,” Thomas helpfully added.”

“Presumably other things as well,” Andreas chimed in, “not that anyone present could properly judge.”

“Bah,” Mila grumbled, “talking like that in the presence of an innocent young woman.”

“You,” Sara commented “Innocent.”

“Yes.”

Yuuri stretched. “Whatever your status, I will not question it. I happen to like my face the way it is, on most days. I’m hungry, who’s down for dinner?”

The usual suspects gave their cheers.

They bid their goodbyes and goodnights and went off to change into their clothes and then out to grab some heavily potato-based dinner in their favourite pub.

Tomorrow, Yuuri would spend the evening with Viktor, doing vocal training, singing together, reading to each other, talking about their day and God knew what. Right now, it was a fulfilling and blissful time together, but Yuuri often enough went about his day, wandering through the city, dropping by in some bookstore or a library or a music store, wondering whether Viktor would like this or that and musing about how much he would enjoy one particular outing and the people to meet there.

He wanted to bring him along so badly, at least to enjoy the company, to see something, anything else than what he might see everyday at the theatre.

As for now, Viktor seemed content to be where he was with Yuuri being with him on any occasion he could find and thus, Yuuri was happy as well.

The last week of June brought with it the begin of rehearsals for _Undine_. Since Yuuri was still in the chorus he partook in both the chorus rehearsals and those set for the soloists in _Undine_. For the second act he would change the Cloth of the Priesthood for something more spirited anyways and sing in the chorus, since he had no part there.

It meant for him that he had to be present for chorus rehearsal as well as for the soloist ones afterwards.

These as of late had been rather well visited by potential sponsors, much to Mr. Feltsman's disgruntlement. “They are distracting,” he commented as he watched them take seats and look at them expectantly. “And they do like not when I chastise you and when they are not happy it is not good. Not for me and not for you. So no chastising and you can not rehearse properly. Not good.”

“Tell them to stay away then,” Plisetsky suggested. “Not like you have to entertain them if they bother you, right?”

“Not good for me either and not good for singers who can do with patronages.” Mr. Feltsman shrugged. “Will have to take care of it, now.” With that he clapped his hands. “You all on your positions!” And then he left the stage to greet their visitors and to oversee their rehearsal from there.

Yuuri noticed Free Lady Poellchau smiling brightly up to them. Next to her he spotted Phichit, smiling just as cheerfully.

He noticed Yuuri and waved at him.

Yuuri smiled and nodded back before focusing on Mila and August going through their scene together, close to the end of the play.

“Kühlend die Schatten, blühend die Matten,” Yuuri provided in lieu of a full chorus, “Silbern die Wellen, der Himmel so klar! Lasst uns hier kosen, flechtet die hellen, tauigen Rosen einander ins Haar!”

Mila smiled brightly. “Ist doch in Wald und Flur nichts Schönres als die Schnur der sonnenblanken Steine,” she sang, delighting in the beauty of nature around her, “die mir mein Freund geschenkt. Oh seht wie klar, wie reine im hellen Sonnenscheine das farb'ge Licht sich hebt und senkt, Weh! – was geschah?”

His part was done and Yuuri could lean back and listen to her and August sing themselves to their ultimate doom.

“Ha schnöde Gaukeleyn!” August sang and then a trialogue between Huldbrand, his current wife Undine and his former betrothed Berthalda took place that resulted in him casting Undine aside, despite her warnings of some great tragedy that might befall him for doing so.

Mr. Feltsman sighed and raised his arms. “Stop! August, how is Huldbrand right now?”

August paused and scratched his head. “Well… not happy, for sure.”

“Yes.” Again Mr. Feltsman sighed in what was very much not an expression of content. “Imagine why?”

“Well, is wife is disobedient to him and won't behave like she is supposed to.” August shrugged. “On the other hand he has his former betrothed being everything he expects a woman and a wife to be and is questioning his decision to marry someone so entirely unlike him.”

Sara made a face at that Yuuri generously interpreted as overwhelmingly unimpressed.

“Of course he is questioning his decisions now,” August continued. “The fact that he can't get out of his marriage again probably does not help.”

Maybe he was projecting, Yuuri wondered.

Mr. Feltsman sighed. He was sighing a lot today. Certainly more than he was usually screaming. Maybe sighing was only an inadequate replacement for screaming? “If you say so,” he finally said. “Then sing like it. Again, from top!”

They started again and went through the dialogue until the moment when some water spirits snatched away a necklace from Berthalda.

“Um meinen lieben Schmuck betrogen, ich armes Kind!” Mila complained, sounding very much like a poor child indeed.

“Verdammte Wogen, die gastlich heuchelnd uns gelogen, dort, dort zum trüben Sumpfe ein!” August hissed and then turned to Sara, “Und du o Weib!”

“O schilt nicht hier. Nicht an den Wellen mich, geliebter Mann! Da zög' es mich mit ernstem Bann auf immer fort von Dir!” Sara's Undine warned and then tried to calm him into being kind and gentle to her again.

“Sara!” Mr. Feltsman called. “A bit gentler! More meek. Try to play an attempt at being submissive!”

Mila snorted at that comment and Sara shot her a look.

“Georgi, play my part again!” she called.

Georgi looked up, blinked and then started to play her aria again.

Sara sang her first lines again and then continued, “Doch kannst du schweigen oder mild wie sonst, ach! zu Undinen sprechen, will ich, wie grimm die Woge schwillt, den Zorn mit süßem Wort ihr brechen.” She continued then to sing an aside towards the waves, begging them to give back the necklace they had taken – or if not another, more beautiful one. “Traute sonnenblaue Welle, gib zurück das blanke Pfand. Und wenn's schon zu weit entschwand, o so liefre gleich zur Stelle, mir ein schön'res in die Hand.” Yuuri could not help but be in awe at how flexible her voice was, in one moment meek, almost afraid and desperate to soothe her angry husband, the next she was entirely otherworldly, whispering to the water, bending it to her will and through it all she was constantly sweet and flexible.

Maybe someday he would get to sing as her counterpart.

Mr. Feltsman nodded for them to continue.

“Was steigt aus klaren Fluten so lockend hell hinauf,” Yuuri provided the chorus, “Hegst du auch Rosengluthen, du blauer Wogenlauf?”

“Hab Dank, du freundlich Kind.” Sara smiled brightly at him and then turned to Mila. “Da, Liebchen, nimm!”

Her offer at peace and friendship was rejected. “Was soll das meinem Schmerz und Grimm!” Mila's Berthalda complained. “Hin ist die teure Gabe, die mir vor Allem galt.”

The scene played out and even in rehearsal and with some glitches and flubs it was painful to watch Undine trying to be to her husband's liking and to befriend his former betrothed whom she obviously had taken a liking to, just to be so harshly rejected by both of them, despite all her efforts.

Hoffmann clearly sympathised with her here. And considering how Undine and Berthalda were the only roles with significantly long solo parts he probably was more sympathetic to women in general. At least the _Sandman_ suggested something similar.

They went through the scene for another round before focusing on the first act.

“Ah, our priest has found himself some dignity,” Mr. Feltsman commented, as Yuuri had sung his wedding sermon. “Now if he could find the notes as well, it might be even something worth listening to. Again!”

Yuuri had missed a few notes indeed. So maybe his words were something like a praise and Yuuri was keen to justify it if it was indeed so.

When they were through with rehearsal, Yuuri was as exhausted as if he had just sung through a performance and sat down on a crate in the wings.

August saw it and tried to look fresh and perky, but he seemed a bit out of sorts as well as he wandered around.

Plisetsky seemed equally dazed. He had not sung any of his parts today, which was probably a good thing too. He had deep shadows under his eyes and looked even more annoyed by the general state of the world (or maybe his mere existence in it) than usual for him. Not to mention he was awfully pale.

Probably hadn’t slept very well, Yuuri suspected.

Their little audience came up to them, Free Lady Poellchau cheerfully ignoring the warning signs about Plisetsky and walking up to him.

Maybe Plisetsky did not display his warning signs as clearly as usual (if that was truly the case, then Mr. Feltsman’s presence in the room was most definitely the reason) and she approached him, blissfully unaware of his constantly foul mood.

Plisetsky did nothing to rob her of the illusion of him being in a good mood, smiling a somewhat tired, pallid smile as she greeted him with a bright twittering, “Mr. Plisetsky. How good to see you. But too sad that we did not get to hear you today.”

Plisetsky mumbled something and gave her a nod that looked very much not-unkind.

“Mr. Katsuki!”

Yuuri turned around to find Phichit standing in front of him, smiling broadly and brightly. “I have not congratulated yet.” He reached out a hand and Yuuri took it. “And at least to me you do sound very good. Very well-suited for your role.”

“Thank you.” Yuuri managed a smile. “But Mr. Feltsman had a point there, I still need to work on the role.” And oh, how he did. Thank goodness opening night was not tomorrow.

“I will leave that to your judgement,” Phichit amended, “You are more of an expert on this than me. But to me you did sound very fine. I am looking forward to hear you when you are satisfied with yourself.”

Yuuri laughed. “Let's just hope I manage to get that far by opening night. Let alone have Mr. Feltsman be satisfied with me. Will you be there?”

Phichit made a face. “I fear not.” He sighed. “My current stay at Dresden is coming to... not really a close, mind you, just an interruption. I am scheduled to head for London three weeks from now.”

“Oh.” Yuuri could not help the twinge of disappointment. “Well, I hope you enjoy your time there.”

“The most enjoyable thing about my stay there is that it is hopefully very short,” Phichit assured him. “The second most that I might be provided with ample time for doing my sketches with nobody breathing down my neck.”

Yuuri smiled at him. “For how long will you be away?”

“Hopefully no longer than another two or three weeks. It is just a check-up on our London partners, nothing more. I will be back before you know it and most definitely before _Undine_ has its closing night.” Phichit laid his hand on Yuuri's arm. “I would like to call on you when I am back, with your permission?”

“Yes, of course.” Yuuri nodded and then asked, “And what will you do in your remaining time here in Dresden?”

Phichit shrugged. “Work. Sketch. Maybe paint a bit, although my lodgings offer terrible light for it. Go out. Amuse myself. Meet people. Enjoy the arts Dresden has to offer. By the way, would you join me for lunch coming Sunday?”

Yuuri nodded before he realized. “Of course.”

“Wonderful. I have made a few sketches of your rehearsals today again. Hopefully I have worked them into a concept by then. I would like to show you.” Phichit smiled at him enthusiastically and this time Yuuri was aware of it when he nodded in agreement. “That would be very kind of you. What are you planning to do with us and our singing anyways?”

Phichit chuckled. “Now that would be telling, would it not?” He waved a finger at him. “If everything comes together as I hope, a scene from an opera in all its dramatic glory. Potentially _Vampyr_ , but _Undine_ has a lot of potential too.”

Yuuri smiled and looked around. “I think Miss Crispino has a few words for you, would you not like to pay attention to her?”

Phichit looked over to her and she smiled, while still chatting with Mila and another gentleman, probably the very same Yuuri recalled to be such an avid connoisseur of Wagner.

“Well, we should never keep a lady waiting, right?” Phichit sighed. “I hope to see you Sunday?” He reached into his jacket and handed Yuuri a small calling card containing his name and address.

“I will be there after mass.” Yuuri read the address - a hotel he passed by every Sunday on his way to church, it turned out, and one that probably cost more a week than he earned in a month - and pocketed the card while Phichit headed over to Sara.

Lunch was a good cue, though. Yuuri should head out and get himself a bite before the preparations for tonight’s performance started.

 

Opening night for  _Vampyr_ came and went with moderate success and with moderate to little success it went on.

One night Yuuri spotted both Mrs. Eleonora and Free Lady Poellchau in the audience, listening with rapt attention, but they were probably the only ones.

Plisetsky, as usual, finished his parts with bravour despite the stage make up doing a somewhat poor job to cover up the signs of exhaustion that had by now firmly settled down on his face.

He also was rather subdued afterwards, merely shrugging whenever someone addressed him rather than glowering and growling a response.

Was he sick?

Yuuri watched him from the side.

So far Plisetsky seemed just very tired, rubbing his eyes throughout the list of faults Mr. Feltsman had found with tonight’s performance. (Which consisted of nothing he did not complain about after every performance, so Yuuri could relate very well.)

“We go over it tomorrow!” Mr. Feltsman ended his sermon. “Good night!”

This was all Yuri Plisetsky needed to dash off, without looking back.

“Yuri!” Mr. Feltsman called after him, but the young man did not turn around.

“Wow,” Thomas commented, “look at him, being all busy and in a hurry.”

“Might be he is meeting someone,” Andreas shrugged. “I mean, I remember when Yuuri was like that when he and his girl were new – by the way, when will you finally introduce her to us? How long have you been seeing her now, it's time we meet her.”

Yuuri shrugged. “You will know the day you all stop acting like someone being sweet on someone else is akin to them dying.”

“Never, then,” Johannes summarised. “Glad we talked about it.”

“But...” Andreas gestured into the general direction Plisetsky had disappeared into. “I mean... how would _he_ get anyone to like him?!”

“Good voice,” Yuuri commented.

“Pretty face,” Thomas agreed.

“Extremely pretty face,” August nodded as they headed for the dressing room.

Plisetsky rushed past them, some of his stage make-up still clinging to his skin and he rubbed at his face frantically.

“Definitely a girl,” Andreas declared. “And I still don't get it,” he continued while shedding his costume. “Sorry, but no pretty face in the world can make up for that personality!”

“If it's a girl, she'll catch on soon enough,” August shrugged. “And if you remember, the Jap got a girl. _If_ he got a girl, that is. If that's the case, then I guess anything's possible.”

“Yes, true.” Alexander nodded. “He has no accent, he's well known and his looks are not too alien – sorry Yuuri, no offence.”

Yuuri managed to wave it off- “None taken.” Offence was, in fact, taken.

“I mean, you're entirely different. Exotic,” Thomas added. “That's something else.”

“Totally. Plisetsky is Western, but there's Western,” Andreas pointed at his own face, “and there's … Western. Or like something not-western trying to be Western and it's not good. Looks weird. Not Plisetsky, though.”

“No way he's Russian,” someone interjected. “Too delicate.”

“Too smart, too.”

Yuuri felt his stomach sink listening to this and he quietly finished dressing and cleaning up before grabbing the basket he had brought, and then slipped out of the room and away into the corridors, slowly climbing up the stairways and ladders.

Nice to know where he belonged, at the very least. It helped gaining perspective, he mused, growing ever more glum the more the darkness of the attic surrounded him.

At the same time, though, it covered him like a blanket, warm, heavy and comforting. He had known that he was somewhat other anyways. It was only a reminder, nothing else.

Underneath the door there was a sheen of light.

Softly Yuuri knocked and then listened to the short, fast fall of steps. The door opened, he slipped in and Viktor drew him into a hug while closing the door.

Yuuri felt himself falling against him and into his arms, breathing in deeply.

Viktor smiled into his hair. “Missed you, too.” He pressed a short kiss into Yuuri's hair and then another on his temple and for now everything in the world was in place again.

Yuuri hummed contently, finally willing himself to bring a little distance between them. “Lessons first, then dinner?”

“I like that proposal.” Viktor's hand ran over his cheek, very soft and very, very warm. He furrowed his brow. “Are you alright? You are pale.”

“The light is not exactly flattering, dear,” Yuuri argued. “I am alright.”

Viktor sighed. “Lessons then.”

Yuuri knew he would ask again later, but he would answer then. Right now it was more important to sing himself warm and to feel Viktor step behind him and pull his shoulders back.

Breath exercises. Then singing deep into his stomach and singing from it.

Singing high notes from his stomach, singing deep notes on the top of his voice.

Singing scales up and down.

Another set of breath exercises. All the time Viktor's hand on his throat or his stomach, controlling the movement of his breath.

It felt so wonderfully right and Yuuri had to force himself not to lean into the touch. Doing that would have greatly diminished his ability to focus on any lesson on singing or breathing Viktor could give him, he just knew that. No, there was time for that later.

And later came.

“I think that is enough for today,” Viktor mumbled in his ear and then hummed a lively little tune as he pulled him closer, running his fingers over Yuuri's arm. “You must be starving.”

“Hm.” Now Yuuri allowed himself to lean into the touch, even more so when Viktor's lips began fluttering over his neck, sending small, pleasant shocks through his body. “I think I can still survive until we're downstairs.”

Viktor breathed down his neck a last time and then pressed a kiss on his cheek. “Alright.”

He took the basket and led Yuuri through the house, now mostly quiet and sleeping, and down to the basement, their fingers woven together and them leaning into each other. It was good. It was where he belonged

By now Yuuri found his way through Viktor's living quarters no matter the lighting conditions and when they arrived, Viktor went around lighting candles and lamps while Yuuri started setting the table.

Dinner consisted again of cuts of bread and cold meats and cheese and tea and it was pleasantly domestic and quiet, easily calming Yuuri's still somewhat fluttering nerves, especially when they settled down on the chaise lounge, Yuuri with a book in hand, Goethe's _Werther_ this time.

“Poor fellow,” Viktor sighed. “I feel him.”

“What, you afraid I am getting married and that you will kill yourself when that happens?” Yuuri asked, turning around.

Viktor pulled him closer. “You are not planning on getting married, are you?”

“What?” Yuuri blinked at him. “Do I have to understand how you get that idea or am I free to just roll with the way your mind works?”

Viktor leaned his cheek against Yuuri's temple. “No, no, just a thought. But you seem unwell.”

Ah, there it was. Yuuri put the book aside. “I'm alright. Really.”

Viktor's hand brushed over his cheek. “You have been pretty pale the whole evening. Are you sure you are not getting sick?”

“I am.” Yuuri leaned in closer and his world continued to slip back into place. “If I was I would not be here. God help me if you caught something from me.”

Viktor chuckled, letting gusts of breath hush over the side of Yuuri's neck. “Yes. What a shame that would be, right? Unimaginable.” Then his tone shifted again. “Really, what is the matter? I know there is something bothering you.”

Yuuri sighed. “No sense in trying to fool you, huh?”

“Glad you are realizing this.” Viktor ran a hand down Yuuri’s arm until he could interlace their fingers. “You want to tell me?”

Yuuri pondered about it for a moment and then shook his head. “I would rather not.” And then he added, “Sorry,” when Viktor tensed up against his back.

Viktor squeezed his hand. “It is alright, but…” Another kiss on Yuuri’s temple and a sigh rushing over his skin, leaving a shiver in its wake. “If I can I would like to help you, but if you do not tell me what is eating on you I will not know what I can do. If there is anything I can do.”

Something placed itself around Yuuri’s throat with firm gentleness muting his breath a little.

He curled tighter into the crook of Viktor’s body and lifted their joined hands to his lips. “You are already helping. A lot.”

Viktor turned his face to kiss him and Yuuri felt himself melt into the touch, the softness only cut through by an unmistakable spike of desire.

It had him pause for a moment, examining the feeling that was amassing warmth in his stomach.

This was definitely nothing new. Viktor had an uncanny ability to cause something in Yuuri's body to stir up and it never failed to unsettle him. He needed distance to find to his balance again.

A part of him wanted some distance, but for once, it was the significantly smaller part, most of Yuuri remaining where he was. More or less. The position was not entirely suited for long, languid kisses and he shifted and turned.

The book, long forgotten, fell down with a soft _thud,_ pushed off by a shifting leg.

Viktor ran a hand over Yuuri's cheek. “Feeling better?”

“A bit.” Yuuri pondered what he wanted to say next. This had to come out right. He took Viktor's hand and placed it on his hip, very deliberately next to his mid-section. His body seemed to consider this a very good idea. “Though I think there is something you could help me with. If you'd like to?”

Viktor shot him a somewhat puzzled look. “Sure?” He moved his hand a little and Yuuri found himself leaning into the touch.

“Sure.” He nodded and reached up for a kiss. “Might need a few lessons here as well.”

Viktor laughed into the kiss. “Well, you know I live to teach you.”

Yuuri chuckled. “I know. And I love to learn.”

Viktor was busying himself with Yuuri's shirt already, undoing the buttons and slipping a hand under his under shirt, making him squirm, he did not quite know himself whether towards the touch or away from it.

Viktor's touch softened for a bit until the direction was clear. Into it.

Very much into it.

Viktor did not bother to take more of Yuuri's clothes off, just unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them down enough to have free access to him.

His touch was gentle, very gentle, just a fingertip running up and down his length. It felt wonderful and at the same time it was so little that he grumbled in frustration.

Viktor chuckled into his ear and Yuuri blinked up to him, wrapping his arms around Viktor's back, keeping him from moving away any more. “You're mean.”

“I know. Sorry.” Viktor was not sorry, not even when he kissed Yuuri to make up for it. “But it is just so much fun to tease you.”

“Not for me.”

Another kiss on his brow and then on his nose, while Viktor's finger still whispered up and down his erection. “So, you want me to stop?”

“Hell, no!” Yuuri's hand landed on Viktor's arm and again, it had him laughing. “Just... a bit more delivery after the teasing?”

Viktor rubbed his nose against Yuuri's cheek and down to his neck. “Can do that.”

And he did.

His hand wrapped itself around Yuuri's erection, moving up and down, slowly and with a firm grip that was offset by his fingertips moving about the tip of Yuuri's erection whenever he was there.

It took longer than Yuuri would have thought. Whenever the need had arisen for him he had been fairly quick about it, eager to get rid of first the erection and then whatever stains he had made in the process.

Viktor however took his time, pausing on occasion to just let his hand rest around Yuuri's cock and listen to him grumble and ask and maybe outright demand for him to continue.

Viktor most definitely enjoyed hearing him and maybe that was the reason why he did pause so frequently.

At some point it still was too much to take any more. Yuuri came with a short shudder, his fingers digging into the fabric of Viktor's shirt, a gasp bitten back and swallowed.

Viktor pulled him close. “Good?”

Yuuri sighed deeply, body light and heavy all at once. “Hm.” He blinked, moving his legs against Viktor's and meeting something hard.

Viktor sucked in a small breath. “Oh. Well.” He smiled sheepishly. “Well, you see, I like helping you out. A lot.”

“Can see that.” Yuuri bit his lips and then made a decision. “What do you want me to do?”

“What... well...” Viktor breathed in and out. “Well. Nothing you don't want to?” he then suggested. “I am not keen on lovers being coerced into anything.”

“You are not. Coercing me, I mean, but…” Yuuri’s head was still a bit frazzled and it took him time to put his thoughts into words. “I would like to know what you like. If you would like to show me.”

Viktor let out a little laugh as he took Yuuri’s hand. “You do like to surprise me.”

“Apparently.” Yuuri leaned in for a kiss. “Show me.”

Viktor did and Yuuri was an attentive learner, letting Viktor’s hand guide him where and how to touch, listening to his soft gasps and groans for where to linger and when just to let his lips and hands ghost over him.

He was right. Teasing _was_ fun, a lot even. But nothing compared to watching his face twitch, feeling his body tense before he sank back, panting.

It took him a few moments before his breathing evened. “Bed?” He then suggested. “After a bit cleaning up of course.”

“Sounds good, yes.” Yuuri moved a bit for Viktor to get up and followed him to the back of the cave where two small streams flowed along, heading for the river Elbe. Viktor used the bigger one for washing and disposing of both kitchen and bodily wastes, while the smaller one provided clean, fresh drinking water, untainted by the wastes the citizens flushed into the Elbe.

He soaked up a small cloth and handed it to Yuuri, holding the candle for him as he cleaned himself up.

“Thank you.” Yuuri exchanged the cloth for the candle and watched Viktor wiping himself down before he rinsed the cloth and then left it there, next to the stream.

“I listened to the rehearsals today,” Viktor commented as they went back and extinguished the candles and lamps. “That Siamese has taken quite a liking to you, it seems.”

“He is nice, yes,” Yuuri agreed. “Amateur artist. Good one, even.”

“And he invited you for lunch,” Viktor added as they went to bed. “Congratulations, you got yourself a sponsor and a decent one at that.”

“As you said, he invited me for lunch.” Yuuri blew out the candle and felt Viktor slipping under the blanket next to him. “Nothing more, I think.”

“This is how it usually starts, though.” Viktor's arms wrapped themselves around Yuuri. “Tell me how the food was, yes? I do miss some finer cuisine down here, sometimes.”

“I will. If I can I will see that I bring you some sometime.”

Viktor pressed a kiss on his temple. “You are too sweet.”

They laid together in companionable silence, Viktor idly running his hands over Yuuri's neck and Yuuri playing with strands of his hair.

“Well, maybe you can inspire Yuri to finally work on that front as well. God knows he should have done so a while ago.”

“He has no reason though, right?” Yuuri asked. “From what I can tell he is well off, financially, right?”

“Oh, he is,” Viktor agreed. “Dear king Friedrich August has allotted quite a sum for him when he had his first big solo role and was successful. I think he saves up quite a bit of it.“

“And the audience loves him,” Yuuri continued, “at least as long as he only sings instead of talking to them.”

Viktor chuckled.

“He should not be in need of a patron, is what I am trying to say.”

“Right now, yes. But you cannot predict what will be tomorrow or next year or next month. We live in a fickle world, dear. And now even the times are fickle, what with all these revolutions people are getting up to.”

“Right now it is pretty calm,” Yuuri commented. “Not that I am too involved in politics, though, but there are no riots on the streets and I have yet to witness any assassinations happen here.”

“Mood.” Viktor shifted his weight a bit away from Yuuri. He probably laid on his back, staring up into the all-devouring darkness. “You know, this revolt in March came over from some other places. Baden, I think. And it didn't happen overnight, that was coming for a while now.”

“Most revolts do. Slow development and then a big moment when everything gets kick started,” Yuuri mumbled. “Wasn't very successful, though, was it?”

“No.” The bed sheet rustled in a way that suggested Viktor shrugging. “Does not mean the thoughts behind it died down. How are you treated here, in general?”

The sudden shift startled Yuuri a bit. “Well, I guess. My landlady demands her rent on time and doesn't give you any second thoughts as long as you don't show up on the women's floors. About town...” He bit his lip. “People stare. Can't help that, so I mostly ignore it.”

“And otherwise?”

“I sometimes get a remark. Johannes' sister – I told you about her?”

“A bit. What about her?”

“She said something about me looking exotic and that there are people who like that sort of thing. It was disturbing.”

Viktor's hand reached out and touched Yuuri's shoulder. “I can imagine how this feels like.”

“How?” Yuuri asked. “If you walked through the streets people would see a European man with a scar on his left side. Aside from that you will blend in perfectly. At least as long as you don't say anything and let them hear your accent.”

If Viktor had noticed the tint of bitterness in his voice he gave no sign of it. “I grew up learning how to behave like a civilized, noble person so I would not offend any noble guest and friend of our Landlord with our serf manners,” he said. “But no matter how well you could blend in, they always knew and they always let us know they knew. Talked about us in our presence as if we were cattle or furniture or maybe a painting they were assessing for purchase. Or at least short-term use. Asked whether we had the capabilities to wear the clothes we had or whether our stomachs could deal with the fine foods we got. We were not human to them, I guess. Or human, but not human like them.” His hand still rested on Yuuri's shoulder. “It got a little better when we left Russia. As you said, we look reasonably Western enough. The fact that Yura and I have both a very comely appearance helped as well.”

Yuuri recalled the speculations of his friends about Plisetsky and wondered whether Viktor was telling him the truth here, but he did not comment on it.

“But well, you also observed that this only worked as long as I don't let people hear me talk. Once they heard we are foreigners it started all over again. Yuri took great pains to shed his accent because of it. For Yakov it was probably worse. They do not like Jews much in Russia and they do not like Jews much here as well.” Viktor sighed. “It is not exactly the same, but believe me, I can relate.”

Yuuri leaned into the touch. “Sorry.”

“Do not be.” Viktor pulled him closer again. “I want to say, these uprisings were because people want a different life than they have now. Mostly they want to live in a country unified by language and culture. This is nice. It is really nice, but it also means that strangers might not be well liked. It is very likely even. And Yuri is a stranger here. He is Russian. And I wish he could be at home here and be Russian, but that would mean that he is accepted here with him being Russian. As things are now, would you say he is?”

Again Yuuri's thoughts wandered back to the talk from before. He shook his head, his hair softly rustling over Viktor's chest. “Don't think so.” Then he added, “I guess I get why he hates these after-performance-parties so much.”

“I never liked them much either. Too reminiscent of the parties our landlord threw back home. But the alcohol was always good. Made it bearable.”

Yuuri chuckled. “Really now?”

“Yakov always wanted to rip my head off for drinking too much, but sadly, I never misbehaved badly enough for him to warrant such actions.”

“I have a hard time imagining that,” Yuuri admitted. “Makes me wish we had met sooner.”

“Not really.” Viktor ran a finger over the shell of Yuuri's ear. “I was a proper prick when I was younger. Ask Yura.”

“He will say that you still are a proper prick, though, so I would take his word with a few dozens grains of salt,” Yuuri chuckled.

“If things get bad here in Dresden – and they might get bad in some time – and he has to leave for whatever reason, a wealthy and influential sponsor – or one that's even only one of these two things – might be the very thing he needed to find new footing in a new place, a secure start, proper employment, a place to stay, all that. He should really start thinking about it by now.”

“Apparently you did a lot of thinking for him on that front,” Yuuri commented.

“Of course. Dresden is a fine place and well renowned, but ultimately it is only one slightly less small house among many small houses. He can do better than that. He is too good to stay here and waste his potential.” Viktor paused and then continued, “The same goes for you.”

Yuuri turned around to face him, despite the darkness. “Come again?”

“Not on my own,” Viktor replied dryly and Yuuri’s ears grew warm.

“You are terrible.”

“I know. And I am not sorry. What I am, though, is right. You could do well in bigger roles and on bigger stages. Probably even the Scala. A triumphant return there, what do you think? You might not even need a sponsor if your guardian sees your progress.”

“Would be good.” Scratch that, it would be incredible. Celestino would probably be happy to have him back and in a state to give him bigger roles. Yuuri could return in triumph, rather than in shame of his failures.

It sounded almost too good to be true.

And of course there was a glaring catch.

Yuuri lifted a hand and found Viktor’s face. “I’d love to.”

“Then it is settled.” Viktor pressed a kiss on his brow. “We have lots of work to do then.”

“And what about you?” Yuuri asked. “What will you do?”

Viktor was silent for a long time, long enough for Yuuri to wonder whether he had offended him in any way.

Then Viktor let out a long, long breath. “I honestly do not know. I did not have any reason to think about it in years. Even if, it usually only served to depress me, considering the circumstances.”

Yuuri chose his next few words very carefully. “Well… what would have to change for you to think about it again?”

“I would need to have a reason why. And hope that it won't blow up in my face.”

Again Yuuri had to be careful with his words. “Well, according to you I will be leaving Dresden at some point. I would…” Damn words. Damn them.

Viktor was silent. Slowly, very slowly his hand wandered down Yuuri’s left arm. He lifted Yuuri’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss on his palm. “I guess you are right,” he finally murmured. “I _really_ should start thinking about it again.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1st) People are not property. End of story.  
> 2nd) Only because the system was not called "slavery" verbatim doesn't mean it isn't.
> 
> 3rd) On a lighter note, on June 30th Germany said YES to marriage equality and damn, I'm happy! 
> 
> 4th) Oh look, there be sex.
> 
> 5th) As promised, no more big drama. I mean it. No Richard Wagner EVER.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

 

The night went by in peace and silence and deep sleep, curled up around each other and into their blankets.

Yuuri could have stayed like this forever. He could have spent the rest of his life sleeping like this.

“Viktor! Oi!”

Alas, the peace was temporary.

“Viktor, you awake?!”

Next to him Viktor groaned and mumbled something Yuuri did not get. It sounded Russian.

“Morning,” he mumbled.

“Is Katsuki with you?! Hope you are dressed!”

Yuuri opened an eye and spotted a single, small, fuzzy light. Slowly he grasped around until he found his glasses and put them on.

Viktor's features were unclear and mostly shrouded in darkness. “Yura's in a good mood.”

“Delightful as ever,” Yuuri agreed. “Morning!” he called.

Behind the screen the lights grew in number and finally one came around, held by Plisetsky, whose regular display of disgruntlement was exaggerated by the shadows his lamp cast on his face. “Urgh, you two.”

“Morning.” Viktor yawned and stretched, wrapping an arm around Yuuri's shoulders, leaning his head against Yuuri's temple. “Morning, love,” he whispered, apparently low enough for Plisetsky to not hear them, but apparently the kiss he pressed on Yuuri's cheek did not escape his attention, since Plisetsky reacted with something that, as Yuuri decided, fit the description of a screech.

“Morning.” He turned towards Viktor to kiss him as well. True enough, Plisetsky gave them another earful of his dulcet tones. Truly a star tenor.

“Cut it out you two, will you!”

“Same argument as against your suggestion that I should not walk around naked in my own living space,” Viktor chirped. “I live here, I can do as I like.”

“Urgh.” Plisetsky waved. “Get dressed, you idiots! I set the table! Can't bear looking at you!”

“Aw, he's jealous,” Viktor chuckled.

“Leave him alone, will you.” But Yuuri was in too good a mood to raise his voice to something more than a gently chiding lilt.

“Alright, but only for now. You know he's too much fun to tease.”

Yuuri made sure Plisetsky was on the other side of the screen before he pulled Viktor close to him. “Yes, you love teasing so very much. Maybe you want some experience with it next time?” He then leaned over to breathe the barest hint of a kiss against his lips. “Just a thought.”

Viktor blinked at him and even in the dim light around them Yuuri could see that he was blushing.

He liked that view very much. “Let's get dressed, shall we, before he gets mad again.”

Viktor blinked again as Yuuri got up and went on to change into clean underwear and shirt and yesterday's trousers before he went out to help Plisetsky with the breakfast.

The boy did not look at him. “Finally done?”

“Since yesterday night, to be precise,” Yuuri answered, watching in amusement as Plisetsky turned beet red to the roots of his fair hair, even bringing some colour to the grey shadows underneath his eyes. “Thank you for your concern.”

“Urgh, shut up!” Plisetsky grabbed the kettle and stomped to the back of the cave in order to fetch water.

Viktor, finally dressed (the pirate trousers again – one day Yuuri would buy him another proper pair, just so he could enjoy the view), came around the screen. “And I am supposed to not tease him?” He asked smiling.

“I at least do not try on purpose,” Yuuri countered. “He finds the offence himself.”

Plisetsky came back and busied himself with the kettle, giving Viktor the chance to take a close look at him.

“You look quite tired,” he observed. “Had a long night?”

“Yes.”

“Probably more than only one long night in a row, even,” Viktor continued, his voice dangerously sweet and high-spirited.

Yuuri braced his ears for the screeching that undoubtedly would eventually ensue.

For now no screeching commenced, though. “Yeah, so? Not like you always were home on time once you started hanging out with some singers here.” Plisetsky crossed his arms and turned to Viktor.

Yuuri had to agree; the boy looked like he was at least a week short of proper sleep. Did he have to be on stage tonight? Yuuri hoped not; maybe he could talk Viktor into tying him to the bed and get him to rest a bit. Very likely Viktor would not need much convincing for that.

“Yes, but Yakov always knew whom I was with and could be sure that I don’t catch anything. How about you?” He gave Plisetsky a look that was almost completely genuine concern and the amused twinkle that accompanied it marred the sentiment only a little.

“What?” Either Plisetsky wanted to make sure he got Viktor’s insinuation right or he was too tired to have caught on yet.

“I mean, I am glad that you show interest in romance - you are at that age - and I am happy that you found someone you want to spend your time with. I really am.”

Yuuri watched as Plisetsky’s face turned first even paler and then a truly ugly shade of purple and braced himself.

Viktor was either oblivious or did not care for the condition of his ears or his general well-being. “But I do hope you know how to keep yourself healthy. Is your partner alright? No diseases? If you notice any rashes or an itch, please go see a doctor, but I would rather you would not let it come to that.”

“What…” Now Yuuri was sure Plisetsky had simply been too tired to catch up up until now.  “What… you are… this is disgusting!” He shuddered for emphasis.

“Yes, talking about your love life can be a bit embarrassing, I know, but I am always here to listen.” Viktor reached out to clasp Plisetsky’s shoulder, but the boy slapped his hand away. “Urgh! Eat without me, I lost my appetite!” With that he turned around and stomped away.

Yuuri shook his head. “He will be unbearable for the whole day. I hope you plan on making up to me for this.”

“I always do,” Viktor declared, sounding somewhat miffed. Then he sighed. “So it is no blushing young romance that keeps him awake.”

“Sure?” Yuuri sat down and started cutting slices of bread from the small loaf he had brought yesterday. “He seems the sort that denies possessing tender feelings of any nature.”

“He would have reacted differently then. More embarrassed. Less disgusted.”

Ah. So Viktor had caught on to Plisetsky’s reaction. Yuuri cut off a few slices of cheese. “You could ask him directly.”

“I tried.” The words fell through the air like leaden weights, hit the ground and resonated.

Yuuri looked up. Viktor was sitting next to him, his head hanging low, face buried in his hands. His shoulders were hanging.

“I really tried, but he will not tell me. Or listen to me for that matter.” He gently rubbed his temples. “Or why did you think I tried to get an answer by annoying him. It is not like he leaves me any choice in that matter.”

“He is young. I guess it’s normal to stay out late,” Yuuri pointed out.

“Yes. It is. And I do not mind. I really do not. I would be glad if he finally developed something like a social life. Or the skills that are necessary for it.” He laughed, short and slightly resigned. “But last time he was like that it turned out his new friends were of a mind to kill the king and... “ Now he drew a somewhat ragged breath. “They got caught when things went south here. Some could escape, some got shot or hanged when the whole mess was somewhat over. It was in the papers.”

“It was that bad?” Yuuri had known that the revolt had been the mess that revolts tended to be. He had not, however, known how deeply Plisetsky had been involved. Then again, why was he even surprised?

Viktor answered with a curt nod. “A few of them were stage hands. And then of course Richard Wagner.” He spat out the name like something bitter. “Yuri had promised to not get involved, no matter his sympathies. Imagine how well that went. Long story short - I overheard him talking to one of his friends about setting a time and date. Neither time nor the fact that they discussed what sort of guns they would get pointed to a simple get-together. Yakov gave him some opium. Brought him down here for good measure.”

Yuuri reached out, put a hand on Viktor's shoulder and then pulled him a bit closer to him.

Viktor flinched for a moment but then leaned against him. “Sorry.”

“Don't be.” Yuuri let him stay silent for a moment before remarking, “He is a bit of a difficult one, huh?”

“Always was. I would not want for him to be any different, but sometimes it is a bit...” Viktor struggled for a moment to find the right word. “Frustrating. Anyways, he was understandably angry. Well, not that he is ever not somewhat angry with me.”

Yuuri ran a hand through Viktor's hair. “Mr. Feltsman seems to hold some sway over him, though.”

He nodded against Yuuri’s shoulder. “Hm. He does. Not much anymore, though. They still share quarters, however... “ Now Viktor sat up. “Say, can you ask Yakov to meet me? He will know where and when.”

Yuuri wondered what the use of this would be. What Viktor said did not exactly sound like Mr. Feltsman would know anything about what his protégé was up to either.

“I will,” he said nonetheless, because what else could he say? “But only if you eat now. You can continue worrying when you have the energy for it.” With that he quickly buttered up a slice of bread and put some cheese on it before pushing it towards Viktor. “There. Eat.”

Viktor laughed again and this time it actually did sound like a laugh. “How did I get so lucky to have you?”

“Good voice,” Yuuri answered promptly. “Good looks. Very interesting habits in your communication.” He smiled. “Eat.”

Viktor took a bite.

“I might add obedience to the list,” Yuuri chuckled while taking a bite of his own bread, flushing it down with some tea.

Viktor's mouth twitched. “This depends entirely on what you demand obedience on.”

Yuuri decided it was wiser not to answer this if he wanted to be upstairs on time for today's rehearsal. Instead he just smiled, finishing his bread and then starting to prepare another few slices he stacked up on another, two on two, cheese between them. He packed them into a small cloth and tucked them away before handing another slice of buttered bread to Viktor.

Viktor ate up and so did Yuuri.

“I have to go now.” He got up and bent over to press a kiss on Viktor's cheek. “Please don't worry too much, yes?”

Viktor pulled him back down and kissed him on the lips.”I’ll try. Thank you.”

And then Yuuri really had to go.

 

Chorus rehearsal went well enough, with them obediently singing their lines without missing out on one and then listening to what Mr. Feltsman had found faulty, repeating, listening again, repeating. As rehearsals went, it was not half as bad and it was certainly more enjoyable than any dress rehearsals for the  _Vampyr_ they ever had. Yuuri already thanked his good stars for the fact that this monstrosity of an opera was only slated for a rather short run time. Less suffering for all of them.

Afterwards he chatted a bit with Johannes and Andreas who had discovered a new sugar spinner nearby and were describing the sweetmeats he could procure and how neither of them would have ever thought cinnamon or ginger to be so well suited for fruity confections.

Yuuri listened with attention, making a mental note to take a closer look. if the goods were not too expensive he probably would occasionally send a bag to Johannes. And get some for Viktor, who, despite all his protestations of the contrary Yuuri strongly suspected to have a distinctive sweet tooth.

He noticed Plisetsky leaning against a beam and glaring at them.

“Brr,” Andreas declared, shuddering, “look at him. One could think he’s aiming for the Lord Ruthwen. Without needing any stage make-up.”

“Yes.” Johannes nodded gravely. “And you noticed how he dashed off last night.”

“If I was him I’d skip rehearsal today and sleep it off.”

Yuuri shrugged. “He probably will do that only after having passed out and have Mr. Feltsman send him home.”

“Sounds more like you than anything else,” Johannes commented. “Alright, see you tomorrow!” He waved and turned around to leave.

Mr. Feltsman called, “Soloists! On spot! All of you!”

Yuuri hurried back out on stage, nodding a greeting to Sara Crispino in passing.

He went through his parts, listened to the criticism Mr.Feltsman had for him and sang again, more to Mr. Feltsman's pleasure this time. Not that it meant too much, but it was good to hear that Mr. Feltsman saw improvement in him.

As soon as he was finished he went over to Plisetsky, who leaned against a beam and watched his peers labouring through their parts.

“Hello again. And good morning.”

Plisetsky raised an eyebrow at him. “Started bad enough.”

Yuuri shrugged. “Well, you said yourself, he is a bit of a handful on occasion.”

“He's worse when he had...” Plisetsky squirmed quite a bit before he finished, “sex.”

Yuuri felt his ears grow warm. “I am no judge of that. Yet.”

Plisetsky squirmed again and it was almost amusing.

“You left without breakfast,” Yuuri continued, digging into the pocket of his jacket. “Are you hungry?”

“What?! What – no!”

Of course, this was the exact moment Plisetsky's stomach decided to rumble. How else could it be?

Yuuri chuckled and procured the packet of bread and cheese he had wrapped earlier. “Here. You cannot sing on an empty stomach.”

Plisetsky blinked, then looked at the packet and finally grabbed it. “You won't give me peace unless I eat, I suppose?”

“Exactly.” Yuuri watched as Plisetsky unwrapped the packet and took a first bite of his belated breakfast. His face immediately relaxed.

“Never let anyone get between you and your breakfast,” he advised. “No matter what, food.”

Plisetsky nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, whatever.” He ate in silence and with obvious appetite.

On stage, the rehearsals of the three principal players finished their last round and Mr. Feltsman clapped his hands. “Finished for today! Dress rehearsal at Friday! Be ready!” Their little congregation fell apart and Yuuri was gathering his things when Mr. Feltsman walked over to him. “Katsuki.”

He flinched and then quickly straightened his posture.

Mr. Feltsman had his eyes run over him and then turned to Plisetsky. “You go ahead, boy.”

Plisetsky shrugged and went off without even saying goodbye.

Mr. Feltsman looked up and down on Yuuri once more. “You have a corset?”

What? “No.” Yuuri shook his head. “Never needed one.”

Mr. Feltsman waved his hand sharply. “Wrong. You need one. For singing. It helps you sing.”

Viktor had said something like that. Yuuri wondered if he had something to do with Mr. Feltsman’s sudden idea.

“No, I don’t have one,” he repeated.

Mr. Feltsman kept his face even. “I see. In the Bohemian Alley is a store for men’s undergarments. They sell some. Mass production. Good quality, though. Go there.”

“I will look into it.” Yuuri sighed. Mass production or not, corsets still cost money. Then he remembered. Checking that nobody was around to eavesdrop he said, lowering his voice, “our mutual friend wants to talk to you.”

Mr. Feltsman raised an eyebrow.

Yuuri forced himself to breathe evenly. “He said you would know where and when.”

“Do. Was surprised you call that twat my friend. He is lots of things. _Friend_ not one of them.”

That was unexpectedly harsh, even for him.

“No children you have yet?”

Again Yuuri shook his head. “Dear God, no.”

“Ah.” Mr. Feltsman nodded again. “If you ever have - your children are not your friends.” then he sighed once more. “Out. Eat or something. Performance tonight, be well rested.”

With that Yuuri was dismissed and free to go about whatever business he had to go about.

 

A few hours later he was back, had sung in tonight’s show and had actually managed to both do well and to remember afterwards what he had sung and done and how he had felt. That was probably a good thing. He hoped that it was a good thing.

The soloists took their bows to a rather lukewarm applause; the  _Vampyr_ was most definitely not doing it for the audience on its third night of staging. Yuuri certainly could not begrudge them for it, although he had to admit that he felt bad for the soloists. They were front and centre of every performance and it was most certainly not their fault that the opera was a heaping pile of weirdness. Or maybe it was just the general current mood that was considering something like the  _Vampyr_ a heaping pile of weirdness.

The soloists however would very likely catch at least some of the blame for a failed production and a few too many of these - many times one was enough - could very likely kill a so far very successful career.

At the very least Yuuri could be confident that  _Undine_ would do nothing of the kind to him. And if his career indeed got nipped in the bud - well, nobody could prevent him from continuing to work as an unassuming, nondescript chorus singer, right?

The troupe came into the wings and immediately lost any smiles they might have held.

“Urgh,” Mila grumbled, “That was the most polite applause I have ever heard.”

“Which might be even worse than no applause at all.” Sara Crispino sighed. “When there is no applause at all then we at least left _some_ impression. Like that, you will never know until the newspapers next day and even then it is not always sure.” She turned to Andreas, who from the people of the chorus stood the closest to her. She was smiling again, friendly and genuine. “You all worked your hardest, so do not think this is in any way your fault.”

“Wise words, wise words,” Johannes Erhardt agreed. “Good night then, you all, have fun, you earned it!”

Mila smiled. “See you tomorrow. Andreas, you remember that you are supposed to practise the Huldbrand parts tomorrow?”

“Yes.” Andreas’ cheeks flushed. “Yes I do - I did! I still do!”

Both Mila and Sara chuckled in good humour.

“You apparently need sleep more than any of us,” Sara commented. “Or whatever else you all do to unwind. Have a fun evening in any case!”

“You are very welcome to join us, you two!” Andreas quickly called, causing Johannes and Alexander to laugh to himself and Thomas to shake his head in disbelief at his brother.

“Dear Lord, no! This is really sweet of you, but…” Mila waved her hand. “You know how women need their sleep to maintain their good looks. We cannot lose our charms so early in our lives when there is our old age to consider and take care of.”

Sara sighed and Yuuri was very sure he saw her jabbing Mila in the side. “In Mila’s language this means that we will gladly join another time when we are not terribly tired and need to be up the next morning. Maybe on a Saturday? Or a luncheon on a Sunday?”

Andreas nodded quickly and this time Yuuri joined into the general chuckling. “Yes, yes, gladly.” He cleared his throat. “Well, until then we bid you a good night as well.”

Mila and Sara nodded and turned to leave. For the chorus it was the signal that they could leave now and it was high time as well. Yuuri was starving.

 

“Such wonderful women,” Andreas sighed for the umpteenth time and poked at his dinner that had just been brought. So far his beer had been untouched. “Beautiful, talented and sweeter than anyone I’ve ever met.”

The round around their table exchanged glances and eye rolls.

“So, who is it then?” Alexander finally asked, “The Babitch or the Crispino? Who do you like best?”

Andreas looked down on his plate with solemn pensiveness. “Both,” he finally answered.

“Both,” Johannes repeated.

“Yes. Both.”

“You can’t fancy two women at once,” Thomas said. “At least not seriously and not to the same degree.”

“Well, I can and I do,” Andreas huffed, putting aside his fork and crossing his arms. “And I do it very well.”

“Fancying someone usually doesn’t work like that,” Yuuri remarked. “At least according to my somewhat limited experience.”

“Says the one with a girl,” Alexander retorted.

Yuuri shrugged. “Doesn’t mean that I had many fancies in my life.” One, to be exact, two if he counted a violinist from the Scala orchestra. This, however, had lasted about three days before he had found out that the man was married and cheated on his wife with men and women alike and who showed a preference for dalliances with people from backgrounds that had had Yuuri fear for the health of his poor wife - and his own, had he ever had procured the guts to approach him. And then there was Viktor, but the feelings Yuuri harboured for him had pretty much immediately gone above and beyond a simple fancy. And he still doubted that he would have ever been capable of even slightly fancying two people at once, even if it had been less intense as the feelings Andreas appeared to harbour.

“Well, this only proves that the affections I hold as superior.” Now Andreas was waving his finger. “See, if I felt the ordinary love of an ordinary man for one ordinary woman, I would be blind to anything and anyone else but her and declare the image I have of her to be far superior to who she actually is. However, as it is, there are two women whom I adore with equal fervour. My dedication to one does not blind me to the blessings the presence of the other can bestow on the world. My love is pure and transcending everything known to mankind. Also,” and with that he finally took a bite, “no part of my love spoils my eternal adoration and dedication to the  most democratic of all vegetables in the world. And let’s face it, only a true, mature, rational love, such as the one I hold for both these women, is able to maintain this most precarious of balances.”

They all exchanged glances and finally Johannes, who sat next to Andreas, pushed his tankard towards his hands. “There! Drink! For the love of God, please, please! Drink! You sorely need a drink to think straight again!”

“Ah, but Johannes, I _am_ thinking straight! Don’t you understand?!” However, Andreas obediently took a sip of his beer. “I mean, obviously my feelings are well above anything strictly carnal as well - how could they not, when being caused by and directed at two such ethereal women? My Beatrice and my Laura, that is who they are!”

 

“Well, he obviously was not blind to reality, just as he had claimed,” Yuuri chuckled over his pork cutlets, “although he apparently saw more flaws in both Miss Crispino and Miss Babitch than they actually possess. I mentioned to him that Dante's Beatrice was a bit of a mean one and rather self-obsessed and that Petrarca's Laura had no personality of her own at all and only served as both a blank slate and a base for some puns. Not to mention they were both dead. Poor Andreas spent the rest of the evening with finding new female figures of literature to compare them to.”

Phichit had just been taking a sip of a very dry, German red wine and carefully put his glass away, swallowing hurriedly. “Oh dear, really?!”

A pair passed their table and shot them curious looks, probably wondering what they were doing here, being foreign and non-German all over the place.

Yuuri looked back down on his plate to avoid their gazes. “Yes, one should never mess with an Italian about our classics. We might be a bit lax about the Latin ones, but those precious few in Italian we take really seriously.”

“I can see that.” Phichit chuckled, shaking his head. “Not that we are any different, but I think every culture has classics they take more seriously than others and won't allow anyone to play around with.”

“Oh, we play around with them plenty.” Yuuri shrugged and took a bite of his potatoes. The inn they had their lunch at had been a good choice on Phichit's side. The vegetables were well-seasoned and not overcooked, the meat tender and the offered wines indeed drinkable. Also, while Yuuri would have never treated himself to a lunch of that price range, the money Phichit would spend on this lunch would be still low enough to not cause him too much guilt.

He carefully spiked up a few slices of carrot with his fork. “There are plenty of parodies of Petrarca's work, especially in regards to Laura's lack of personality. Dante's works are turned into street theatre or even small operas itself and they like to play up the comedy aspect in the _Divina_ _Comedia_ a lot. We just don't like it when people use our classics for comparisons that are incorrect.”

Phichit nodded gravely. “I promise, I will not, never ever, misattribute Italian language classics for ill-fitting comparisons.” Then he cracked a smile and Yuuri felt himself reciprocating and continuing as Phichit’s smile grew into a hearty laugh.

Occasional glances from other patrons of the inn aside, this lunch was surprisingly enjoyable. Or maybe not surprisingly, considering the fact he was having lunch with someone who looked as foreign here as Yuuri himself - it helped indeed forming some sort of kinship Yuuri didn’t have with his friends from the chorus or even with Viktor.

That aside, Phichit obviously enjoyed being in a good mood and putting others in the same, smiling, talking a bit about his work and asking questions Yuuri could answer in as much detail as he saw fit, spinning a conversation from there until Yuuri could not remember what they had started out with.

Well, Phichit was a businessman and an international one at that. Supposedly  he had to be very good at talking. That he clearly enjoyed talking probably helped as well. Yuuri could see why his father had decided to send him abroad to take care of their international relations. It was easier to make business when your potential partner liked you and Yuuri found it very much impossible to not like Phichit.

“You have been asking when the dress rehearsals start, I recall,” he now said after they both had sobered up. “Mr. Feltsman gave us the date. Come July 6th and I can be admired in full priesthood costume.”

Phichit cocked his head. “You sound less excited than I would have expected. You seemed to have looked forward to it.”

“Oh, I _am_ looking forward to it,” Yuuri replied. “Don’t be mistaken, I am pretty excited about my first solo. And it’s not like I would doubt Mr. Feltsman’s advice or go against it.” Too much. He actually had not wanted to say that much.

Phichit’s face twisted into curious smile. “But the advice seems to be ill-conceived, you think?”

Yuuri’s ears grew warm. “I will not presume to criticise Mr. Feltsman. Let's just hope I will see in time that he is right in his orders.”

“Aw, Yuuri, you are making me curious! What are his orders? Are they really that bad?”

Yuuri made a face. “I suppose not. He says I am to get myself a corset to wear for both rehearsals and performances. Supposedly it is to help me sing.”

“How would that work? I think you need a lot of air to sing, but is a corset not supposed to...” He waved his hands, apparently searching for the right words.

“From what I have gathered from any woman who agreed to discuss her undergarments with me a side effect is that it regulates breathing,” Yuuri said. “But they are used to it, I am not. I honestly wonder how it is supposed to work for me.” He really did not, no matter how much Viktor insisted that Yuuri probably would benefit from wearing a corset when singing. Not to mention that Viktor most definitely had a somewhat more carnal interest in this cause of his.

He made a face. “Not to mention that these things cost money.”

Phichit's reaction came in an instant. “Well, if it is about that I would be glad to help.”

“No, no!” Damn. Another thing Yuuri had not wanted to mention, but here he was. “Please, no!”

“If you don't have the means to purchase a corset and you need one, I really would like to help you,” Phichit insisted. “Really, it would be no problem. I have sufficient means and I would gladly put them to good use.”

Some people turned around to them and Phichit blushed. “Oh.” He sent a sheepish smile around. “Sorry.” Lowering his voice he continued, “Really, I would be more than happy if you relied on me when you need help.”

Yuuri shook his head. “I do not really need any financial help and I am not asking for it, really. I am sorry that I am making such a bad impression on you.”

“You are not.” Phichit shook his head. “Making a bad impression, I mean. You are an artist. As far as I know, there are not that many of your craft that can live with more than the most basic comforts without some form of assistance by an admirer.”

Yuuri's ears grew hot again. “Well, I can live kind of well right now. I have a roof over my head and food accounted for and can keep enough money on the side to occasionally afford new clothes or some small luxuries. Hopefully with bigger roles a bigger income will come to grant me further improvement of my circumstances.” He laid down his fork, then picked it up again, twirling it a bit, before again playing it on he table.

“But you are still not happy about the prospect of purchasing one?”

Yuuri shrugged. “Just because I have saved up enough money to afford one doesn't mean I did not have other plans for that money.”

They were done eating and Phichit waved for the barmaid to pay.

Yuuri watched him as he handed her some bills and coins, cheerfully telling her to keep the rest.

“Oh my, thank you!” She smiled at them far more brightly than when they had first entered.

“What do you say to a little stroll along the Elbe? The air might be bearable near the water.”

Yuuri nodded. “I follow your lead.”

Phichit chuckled as they gathered their belongings and left the inn, not without the barmaid smiling even more as Phichit promised to come back soon.

“Ah, the power of money,” he sighed, still smiling. “All of a sudden they will see you for the person that you are. I love it.”

Yuuri smiled and fell into step next to him.

It was oppressively hot today, the sun glaring down on them with not a single cloud offering even remotely something like relief.

When they reached the riverbanks of the Elbe, the water was glistening like strings of diamonds, blinding them almost as much as the sun itself.

No wind whatsoever, but nonetheless the air was slightly lighter near the river, a little less stagnant, slightly sweeter.

Yuuri took a deep breath. “The Elbe was a good idea. Any longer in the city and I would have lost it with the heat, especially with the wine.”

“Yes, that was not my smartest idea, admittedly.” Phichit sighed. “In France you have a chance to get young, foaming _cidre_ when it is this hot. And of course England has its own variant of this to offer, but I have yet to find something like it in Germany. The Franks have their _Moscht_ ”, he hissed the word in the soft, mouth-stuffed-with-wool fashion that was typical for the Frankish dialect. “But for some reason it won't grow on me like _cidre_ or cider did, I have no idea why.”

“Amazing,” Yuuri sighed. “Again apparently the French did something very well the Germans could only either copy well or do at the same time but not do it well?”

Phichit shrugged. “Who knows. Why you don't like the French?”

“I'm Italian.” Yuuri shot him a sheepish smile. “It comes with the territory, I guess.”

“Too bad, I quite like the French language. And literature. And...” Phichit stopped and then cleared his throat. “May I ask what you are saving up for?”

That was aprupt.

“You don't have to answer, of course, if you don't want,” Phichit quickly added. “It is not important, I am just curious.”

Yuuri pondered the question. He had had not really thought about how to spend the money he had saved up. Books maybe. A pocket watch, he could use one of those. New clothes were also always an option.

Or well, a new pair of trousers for Viktor. He looked good in proper trousers. Very good. Definitely better than in these pirate stripes he loved so much for whatever ungodly reason. He also apparently only possessed one pair.

In the end – mainly because “My lover’s backside deserves some more flattering wrappings” was not a wise answer to give – Yuuri simply shrugged. “As I said, it isn’t like I don’t have the money.”

Phichit nodded sagely, tapping his chin. “Well, obviously you will have to follow the instructions of your director,” he commented.

“Never said I would not,” Yuuri answered. “I would, in fact, like to not kill my career before it actually started. All I said was that I don’t like it.”

Phichit chuckled. “I see. Do you already know where to take your business?”

“Mr. Feltsman told me an address. I will take a look tomorrow after rehearsal. If I find something suitable I might take it right away and be done with it.”

“That’s the spirit.” He smiled again brightly. “We already established that you need to tread carefully and do as you are told to help you career. Here is what I tell you!”

All Yuuri got out was a rather undignified “Ohar?” and he would have liked very much to bite off his tongue for it.

“You go to the store Mr. Feltsman told you and take your pick. So far this instruction is one you would follow anyways. Now here is the good part: I want you to give them my address – you do have my address?”

Yuuri shook his head.

“I’ll write it down in a minute. Anyways, you go there, get yourself outfitted as necessary, give them my address and have them send the bill towards me.”

“What... no, I can't!” Yuuri shook his head. “You can't do that.”

“Sure?” Phichit hummed, “As far as I know this only requires the necessary financial means and contact between all parties involved. I believe I am capable of that. So why should I not?”

“No, really, I cannot ask that of you,” Yuuri insisted. “You don't know me well enough for us to be considered friends yet, I can't possibly accept that.”

“I would like it if you could consider me your friend,” Phichit said. “Please?”

Apparently the only way to get Phichit to stop with that was to be extremely rude, but that was most definitely not the route Yuuri wanted to go.

Damn. He very definitely did not like this. Which was in itself hilarious, supposedly, the fact that someone offered him financial help and he did not want it. It was just that right now all Yuri felt was some tremendous amount of discomfort.

“I will not go along with it unless you allow me to repay you,” he finally said. “I don't like being indebted to people, friends or not.”

Phichit looked like he wanted to make a face at that, but finally nodded. “Alright. Can I set the repayment, though? Since I can gauge best what to me is the best value for the money spent and all.”

Yuuri nodded. “Sounds fair.”

“Great.” Now Phichit was flashing him a smile again. “I would have asked you anyways, but since we have come to this agreement – I would very much like to draw your portrait once. Or paint.”

Yuuri blinked. “Alright. Although I don't think my face to be all that interesting. You would get more dramatic art when working on someone like Plisetsky.”

“Maybe, but I draw him mostly to take a record of how his face changes. He is still a boy growing up and changing so fast, it is dizzying. Last year he could still be confused for a girl.”

Phichit sat down in the grass and opened his bag, pulling a folio out. “Here.”

Yuuri sat down next to him as he was handed a few sheets of paper. They were all sketches, very detailed so, some landscapes and mostly people.

The very first was of a very pretty child, fair hair, large eyes and even when captured only in graphite appearing to possess a disgustingly rosy complexion.

“How did you get Plisetsky to hold still _and_ not scowl for long enough to get this done?”

“I was quick. And maybe he was in a good mood. Although he was always rather polite to me, but this is apparently not the norm?”

Yuuri chuckled. “You have no idea.”

“I might draw him this fall. This picture was done in October and I am scheduled to be here again then.” Phichit took the picture and put it back in his folio. “I would really like your portrait too. I never had a chance to draw a Japanese and your face is rather expressive. If you ask me that is always more fun to both look at and to capture than the general European idea of prettiness. Have you seen current pictures of what they consider pretty here? It all looks the same. Must be boring. And neither of these show any emotion too.”

Yuuri leafed through some more sketches. Another one of Plisetsky, one he already knew, but this version was more detailed, with obvious work put into it. The boy looked like he wanted to yell at the person looking at him. Yuuri chuckled at the sight of it.

Other pictures showed members of the higher society of Dresden, regular patrons of the theatre. Another featured Mila Babitch laughing at a joke Contralo Anna Herzog was telling her. Yuuri had never talked to that woman, but she seemed nice enough.

Another featured a theatre that was clearly not Dresden, but Yuuri still recognised it. “Oh, you were in Naples?”

“Yes, a few years ago. I met Miss Crispino there the first time. What a nice surprise to find out she has transferred here.” Smiling, Phichit leafed through his drawings and finally procured one that featured a younger Sara Crispino sitting next to a boy that looked strikingly like her. They were holding hands and smiling.

“I did this in Naples too. Two versions of this,” Phichit explained. “One for her, one for Signore Crispino. You can tell they are twins?”

“Indeed.” Yuuri smiled. “I have never seen him here, though.”

“Yes, apparently they had a bit of a fall-out. Miss Crispino said he is in New York now and handed this one back to me. Too bad, they were thick as thieves back then.”

Carefully Yuuri sorted the sheets again. “Naples, France, England, German countries, you travelled a lot.”

“Mostly on behalf of the family business. My father managed to expand our business into an international trading company, but when I started out travelling in his place I had less chance to see something of the country than I would have liked. It got better with the years, though.”

That sounded tough, but also intriguing. Yuuri had not travelled much outside of moving from Rome to Naples to Sicily, back to Naples and finally Milan with Celestino. And of course his venture here, but that was hardly comparable to the scope Phichit must have experienced. “When did you enter your family’s business?” he finally asked.

“Pretty young, I suppose, but I doubt that is anything unusual with family businesses. I started assisting my parents with the books when I was twelve. Before that they had me learn to evaluate our goods on their quality and before _that_ my very first duty was to do watch walks around our store houses. We had trouble with rats back then and my parents were not sure whether the cats they had gotten were doing the job. Ironically, I was the one who had suggested to get some feline help.”

A soft breeze arose, carrying the scent of water to them.

Yuuri took a deep breath. “Ah, finally.”

“Summer here really puts pressure on you,” Phichit agreed.

“Thank goodness for stone buildings being somewhat cool. So the cats didn't do their job?”

“Oh, they did, very well even.” Phichit waved his hand. “But after two weeks we still had a few rats and my parents figured I should pick up the slack of the cats. They figured it helped my judgement and decision making and strengthen my sense of responsibility.”

Yuuri chuckled. “Did it work?”

“I loved the cats even more. And yes, all in all it worked. At the moment, however, I more than anything I felt incredibly important and mighty as I wandered through the storehouses and around them in the middle of the night. And most definitely not afraid, oh no, I wasn't, no matter the talk of break-ins that were making their rounds at that time and don't you ever suggest I was afraid of ghosts or spirits.” He chuckled. “Because I would have been incensed if anyone had suggested otherwise back then. And no matter how scared I was, I still did my duty and felt very, very brave for that.”

Now he procured two apples from his bag and handed one of them to Yuuri.

Yuuri took it. “Thanks.”

“Not for that. Anyways, there I was, traipsing around the storehouse, the air was heavy with the scents of anise and cinnamon bark and cloves and I was the bravest little warrior in all of Siam until!” For emphasis Phichit took a bite of his apple and chewed it down. “Until there was a noise!” He waved his arm dramatically and Yuuri humoured him by gasping over dramatically.

“You can imagine how my blood rushed, my heart beat. I stood perfectly still, listening, listening, listening...” He let his voice trail off, undoubtedly for dramatic effect. “And then, there it was again! And it came closer! You can imagine how my heart was beating!”

“In vivid detail,” Yuuri confirmed, chuckling.

“Then it got away and I followed it, all the way to one of the store rooms - there I heard it again and this time from inside the door. So I slowly, slowly opened the door, sneaked in and held up my lamp in hopes of getting a glimpse of the culprit and then!” His hand shot up, causing Yuuri to flinch backwards. “It attacked me, tackling me right in the face that I fell backwards, right into a sack of cinnamon. Weeks afterwards I still smelled like it. Whenever I am here in winter this memory comes right back to me, considering how much the Germans love to spice their winter sweets.”

“I fear I have not been here long enough yet to e a judge of that. But I am looking forward to try it.”

“Wait until you have tried their cinnamon stars. Delicious. And I don't know whether you have something like mulled wine in Italy, but the German version if it is a delight.” Phichit grinned. “They have a nice Christmas market here in winter. I hope I can make it here in time for it.” Phichit stretched. “Anyways, I grabbed the beast and there as a vicious hiss and when I finally could shed some light on on it – it was one of the cats. Poor thing was scared for life.”

“Oh no!” Yuuri laughed. “Poor thing indeed, but probably it only had itself to blame. With cats it's always the same. There are always some in the Scala and they always end up making a mess.” 

“Please, tell!” Phichit handed him another apple. “There are not nearly enough funny cat stories going around.”

Yuuri chuckled and of course, gladly provided him with them. Starting with a black cat getting into the stage make-up.

Yes. Talking to Phichit was incredibly easy and incredibly enjoyable.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? Told you, it will be fluff and slice of life from now on and forevermore. No drama EVER. 
> 
> Also, a cookie for everyone who spotted the cameo. :)  
> (I wish I had more to say today, but I think I'm under the weather a bit. :/ Summer is kind of nonexistent in Berlin this year and it kinda gets to me. (Next thing I know a teenage mom's gonna write a horror novel because she's bored.)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dress rehearsals, corsets, and some minor revelations.

Chapter 13

 

A week later Yuuri was in possession of a corset, paid for by Phichit, and Viktor of a new pair of trousers, paid by Yuuri (and thus, in a way, by Phichit too) and the preparations for the first dress rehearsal were well underway.

Also he stood in his very own dressing room, at least his own for now. It was small and with its dark furnishings and pale blue carpet rather standard issue for the Dresden theatre, a far cry from the individualized quarters of Plisetsky or the lavish suites that Yuuri knew Sara Crispino, Johannes Erhardt and one or two other lead soloists inhabited.

But it was the first dressing room ever he could call his own and the very thought was making him slightly giddy.

Less giddy he was about wearing the corset, despite the fact that Mila, bless her, had agreed to lace him up and explain what she was doing and how she was doing it. The lacing took his breath away and the explanation made Yuuri’s head spin, and neither in a pleasant way.

“That should do it,” Mila, already in costume (which was a bit big for her; the waist had been taken in with a few stitches) declared as she finished lacing him up, tying the cords to a firm knot on the small of Yuuri's back. For good measure, she gave his back a pat. “How do you feel?”

Yuuri took a tentative breath. Despite his previous, mostly surprised gasps it was surprisingly easy, since Mila had laced the corset into a V shape down his back, leaving his chest only moderately constrained. “Good. Thank you.”

It still felt weird being put into that cage.

Yuuri tried to bend down and found out – much to his frustration – that it was a lot harder than he would have expected. “Urgh – how can you _move_?!”

“Practise,” Mila shrugged, shaking her head so that her long braid swished over her back like a fiery rope. “My mother insisted on me wearing one form or another of stays from a very young age and I got used to it. At least she never wanted me to lace too tight. _That's_ unpleasant.”

“I can only imagine,” Yuuri mumbled. “Thank god I am not a woman.”

“You bet. But then again you would have your pick of suitors. Wealthy men like Asian women. Exotic concubines and such. Guess why half of Sara's sponsors throw so much money at her and like to take her out when she lets them. An Asian would be even busier.” She laughed. “I would so hate you for that. But then again you would have no time to sing anymore and I would rarely ever see you, so I would have no chance to be mean to you anyways.”

Yuuri shuddered. “You can be mean?”

“Eh. It's a tough business. I think anywhere else I could grow into a massive bitch, but here – not so much. We stick together too much and the person capable of wanting to sabotage Sara has to be born yet, I think.” She again slapped his back, laughing. “Also, you are a man, so our sponsor's interests in us vary considerably. No competition there and you probably have to spend less time on fending off an overeager idiot who thinks he's entitled to more than your time, company and occasional artistic offering at a party he is throwing.”

Yuuri made a face. “You know what – I will donate three times the amount I usually give this Sunday, just to thank God three times over that I am not a woman.”

“Do so. And while you're at it, ask him to change a few things down here, will you?”

“One of the changes should be a banishment of corsets. The lacing takes forever, I know of so much I could do with that extra time.”

Yuuri laughed. “I see what can be done. No promises.”

“Thank you.” Mila ran a finger over the fabric on Yuuri's side. “You know, marine blue suits you. When you get a new suit, consider it to be in this colour.”

“Thank you. I might do so.” Yuuri quickly turned his head away, so Mila could not see his cheeks turning a bright red.

Of course, Mila saw it anyways and her face split into a broad, cat-like grin. “Suggestion from someone?”

She was right. The colour had been Viktor's suggestion the moment Yuuri had informed him of Mr. Feltsman's order, which he had agreed with rather enthusiastically, whispering possible colours for the damn thing over Yuuri's skin, weaving them into his hair until he had him in pieces at last. “Dark blue is it then,” he had chuckled into Yuuri's thigh, “Yes, that would be a lovely colour on you. Midnight. Or marine. You look good in such dark, intense shades.”

So marine blue.

Yuuri nodded and Mila grinned. “Whoever suggested it – good taste.”

“And a thing for this stuff I fear,” Yuuri sighed, running a hand over his significantly firmer and slimmer waist. “Urgh.”

“You don't like it?”

“Not at all,” he confessed.

“Good for you that you won't have to wear it again until opening night. Unless of course you need practise to adjust your breathing.”

Yuuri shuddered and maybe, just maybe did so a tad overdramatically. “Perish the thought. Thank you for the motivation, now I definitely will outdo myself.”

She chuckled. “Always glad to help a fellow out. Better hurry now the guys from the costume Department hate to be kept waiting.”

Yuuri threw on his shirt and jumped into his trousers and shoes and then hurried through the corridors while buttoning up his waistcoat. He had to leave the theatre through one of the many back entrances and enter a small side building that stored - aside of smaller musical instruments, old financial records and other organisational paperwork - the costume department, along with a dizzying collection of wigs and a small tailor’s workshop.

He rushed to the second-to-left room on the ground floor that was labeled “Costume Fitting - _Undine_ ” and knocked. The door opened with gusto and a rather broad, sun-tanned man stared down at him. “Name and role!” he demanded, ushering him in. “Say! We don’t have all day!” The way his short hair bristled and stood up had Yuuri consider it quite possible for him to suddenly start shooting lightning at him and he hurried in. “Katsuki, Yuuri. Role is Pater Heilmann!”

The man nodded. “Martin Freudenberg.”

“Mother!” A little girl’s voice called and Yuuri saw its auburn-haired, pig-tailed source peeking around the man’s waist, “the Priest singer is here!”

From the back of the room - unadorned, simple and full with racks loaded with costumes - there were steps. A moment later a young woman showed up, as auburn-haired as her presumed daughter and dressed in spring-green linen. “Thank you, Klio, but weren’t you supposed to sort the buttons?”

The little girl giggled.

“Shoo, off you go. And tell Melete I need her.”

The girl dashed off and the woman turned to Yuuri. “Sorry. You’re the new soloist, right? We heard some things about you. Come, come, try on your costume.” She led him through the racks and was soon joined by another girl – although Yuuri could only guess that she was not the girl from before based on the fact that she wore a different dress and her hair in one single braid rather than pigtails. She held a measuring tape in her small hands that was yellowed with age and use and moved as easy under the woman's hand as she unrolled it. “I'm Lena Freudenberg, you met my husband Martin. We run the costume department, so if you have performed here already, you also have worn some of our costumes.”

Probably. Yuuri had never set foot in here before. Since they didn't have to do much dancing, the costumes for the chorus did not have to be a perfect fit and were usually just brought for them to pick something out.

But hanging on the racks between other costumes Yuuri did spot some vestments from the _Wildschütz_ , indeed. “Pleasure.”

Mrs. Freudenberg smiled at him. Sunny personality, Yuuri guessed. “You mind to get rid of your outer garments and try on this?” she now asked, holding up a black frock.

Yuuri hesitated.

She raised an eyebrow. “Granted, I got them all at once, but still, one does not have three daughters from doing nothing.”

That was true. Also Yuuri had stood in his underwear in front of Mila today and he had survived that ordeal as well.

Not to mention that he was wearing an additional layer of clothing.

Then again, there was also a child present. He glanced to the little girl who looked at him with a curious twinkle in her eyes.

“And my girls have seen men in their long-johns as much as I have,” Mrs. Freudenberg added. “Don't run around naked around them, though. They will spread word through the whole theatre and no stagehand ever will let you hear the end of it.” She sighed. “I sometimes wonder why I don't make use of the switch more often.”

“Because you love us, mother, and don't like to hear us crying and because we are very well behaved,” her daughter pointed out. Apparently it was true, since Mrs. Freudenberg smiled and ruffled her hair.

With a sigh Yuuri let go of waistcoat, shirt and trousers.

Mrs. Freudenberg let her eyes run up and down on him. “Alright. You will be wearing that thing for performances as well?”

“Yes. Orders.”

She nodded. “So we'll probably have to take it in around the waist a bit anyways – this is how you gonna wear it on stage?”

Yuuri looked down on himself. “I guess. I had someone lace it for me and she said this works.”

“Then we will go with it. Notify us when you need to wear the corset looser, so we can adjust.”

“I will, thank you.” Now Yuuri finally grabbed the frock and pulled it over his head.

From the front of the room he heard Mr. Freudenberg grumble to someone who apparently had just showed up as well.

“Good...” She wandered around him, looking up and down on him. “You have pretty slim shoulders. Take this off, we have another smaller one.”

Yuuri followed her order and took another frock.

This one sat a bit tighter when he buttoned it up.

“Better,” Mrs. Freudenberg nodded. “Yes, this will do. Arms out!”

Yuuri again obeyed.

“Melete, can you fetch the black yarn?”

“Yes, mommy.” The girl turned around and started digging through a very large, multi-layered sewing box while her mother unrolled the tape and measured up Yuuri’s arms, folding up the sleeves a bit.

The girl handed her a needle carrying a bit of black thread.

“Thanks, dear.” She put a few stitches into the sleeves and then bent down to pull together some fabric at his sides. “Pins.”

Melete handed her some and she fixed one of the gatherings in Yuuri's left side. Then she stitched the right one before finishing up the job on the left. “That should do it. Yes, looks good. Alright, that's it. You can go.”

Yuuri quickly undressed and changed back, just as two young voices, very similar in tone called, “Mother, Yuri Plisetsky is here!”

“Send him over, girls, thank you!” Mrs. Freudenberg called back. “These are only provisional stitches for the first dress rehearsal. Be careful to not tear them too much and bring the frock back when you are done so I can fix it up properly.”

“I will, thank you.” He quickly climbed back into his trousers as Plisetsky came over, escorted by the first little girl and another one, who, again, looked just like her, with her hair tied up high on her head the same way her mother wore it.

The bloody corset hampered his movements a bit, but he still managed. God help him if he ever willingly wore the stupid thing tighter than he did now.

“Thank you again. See you later.” With that he left, frock over his arm.

Back in his dressing room he again changed back into the frock and then headed towards the stage, where most of the chorus and the female soloists were already gathering.

Some greetings were exchanged, Andreas and Alexander loudly and gratuitously commented on Yuuri looking like he was about to recruit some sweet, innocent maidens for Catholicism.

“The best young maidens are catholic anyways,” Mila commented dryly. “Look at me.”

That earned her a round of chuckling.

Plisetsky joined them, suppressing a yawn. “Morning.”

A short while after him August joined them all smiles and good mood. “Hello, wonderful day for a dress rehearsal, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed,” Sara smiled her usual, delightful smile. “Are you ready for it?”

“I always am.” August did something like a bow and then turned around for everyone to admire his costume – grey, shimmering silk that matched both Sara's water-fair dress and also emulated the look of plated armour.

It looked impressive, indeed.

Thomas turned to Andreas. “Aren't you supposed to be dressed too?”

“I am.” Andreas looked down on himself, earth spirit through and through.

“You are not,” Johannes argued, softly enough for August not to hear. Yuuri walked over to them, just as Johannes continued, “You're the understudy for him – which is interesting, because neither of you two have ever understudied any big role before, but that's Mr. Feltsman for you. I bet you're supposed to sing through the Huldbrand parts as well today.”

“Then I can sing in this costume and then head over to the Freudenbergs and ask whether they can fit me.” Andreas shrugged. “Not like it would be necessary anyways.”

“Sure about that?” Alexander nodded to August, who was by now trying to chat up Johannes Erhardt. The man looked supremely uncomfortable.

“Is he drunk?” Yuuri wondered in a whisper. “He acts like me when I'm drunk.”

“Nah,” Johannes denied, “you're a lot less touchy-feely.”

“With you maybe.”

They chuckled at that, even Johannes.

“Your poor girlfriend,” he said.

August, having failed to chat up Johannes Erhardt, now turned to Plisetsky, but the boy just scowled at him and stalked away.

Yuuri found that he liked him better and better every day, despite his character.

“I think he's overly exited at worst,” Alexander said. “Maybe had a glass of wine to calm his nerves, but that's it.”

“Then he is not drunk enough,” Johannes declared.

The ballet dancers, clad in silver, blue and green, appeared and one even smiled at Yuuri. After a bit of squinting he recognized the girl who had been his dance partner during the _Wildschütz_ and returned her greeting with a nod.

Below them the orchestra took their positions.

Yuuri glanced to the hall with its many empty boxes and almost completely empty seats; only a few of the front seats were occupied by some dedicated patrons who wanted to see the first dress rehearsal. He spotted Phichit the same moment he himself was noticed.

Phichit sent him a small wave (presumably he was smiling, although Yuuri could not really tell without his glasses on) and Yuuri responded in kind.

Also Mr. Feltsman showed up. He only took one look at them. “All in costume? Good. Very good. Hopefully not only good thing to happen today?!”

Hopefully not indeed, Yuuri mused, as they took position.

Johannes Erhardt and August took their place.

They all fell silent.

And then the orchestra swept over them with the overture.

The stage lit up, bright enough for Yuuri to see in detail what was going on without having to squint too much.

Andreas and Johannes Erhardt ran over the stage, looking frantically around for Sara Crispino, who was now ushering to her own position.

“Ach Undine, holde Kleine!” they called out together. Their voices didn't mesh well and sadly didn't even offer an interesting contrast, but they had too few scenes together for this to be of any importance.

“Höre doch und komm' ins Haus! Kehre wieder! – Nachts im Haine wohnet Spuk und wilder Graus!”

The scene played out. The fisherman's wife commented on her foster daughter Undine's unruly nature, a continuation of the search and an explanation of how Undine had happened to come into the fisherman and his wife's care, all intercut by the chorus of water spirits. Yuuri, singing these parts with the rest of them, made a mental note to accompany Andreas back to the Freudenbergs to get a costume large enough to be thrown over his priest's smock for whenever he was to sing a scene in the chorus and to give back the one he was actually assigned.

Then, after a scene between Undine, the water spirits and her uncle Kühleborn, the girl in question finally was found by Huldbrand and at this point August and Sara had their first instance of singing together.

August audibly gasped as Sara turned around to face him. “Was schau' ich dort auf dem Felsenufer?”

Sara, smiling the sweetest of smiles answered with an artful tremble in her voice,“Ja ich bin es.”

“Vertrau' ich der süßen Traumgestaltung?” August asked, stepping closer, offering her his hand.

“Ja ich bin es,” Sara confirmed, her smile growing brighter with every word she sang. “O nah' dich mir, du holder schöner Mann.”

The spirits attempted to keep them apart and Yuuri - frock be damned - stood among them, cursing Huldbrand with all their hearts. “Zurücke – zurück!”

Indeed August remained where he was, rather than coming closer to Sara. “Mich schwindelt's,” he declared, sounding ill, “ich schwanke!”

“Verblind und erkranke!” Yuuri hissed among them.

Another exchange later Sara’s Undine had enough and shooed them away. “Verstumme, schändliches Gewürme!” Yuuri would have never thought her to be able to sound angry. Commanding, yes definitely, but anger would have been the last emotion he would ever had connected with Sara Crispino, acting or not. “Verschwind' alsbald! – wer hat dir das erlaubt?” And then she turned back around to her Huldbrand, all smiles and sunshine again. “Sie sind schon fort, mein Lieber, nun trotze kühn der Fluth.”

August made a show of looking slightly disturbed before collecting himself and purring, “Dir Engel gegenüber, wem bräche da der Muth?”

Their duet commenced. They were joined by Undine's parents (much to the girl's chargrin).

The scene would soon close and then Yuuri's scene would be due. He slowly retreated from the group and disappeared in the left wing, waiting for his cue.

The stage darkened. The small curtain fell. The orchestra played through to cover the soft shuffling on stage as scenery background and props were changed.

Yuuri put on his glasses, just to be sure, and went to his spot.

Sara and August were already kneeling for their wedding ceremony; Yuuri could see their silvery garments shimmer in the semi-darkness.

He also could see Sara furrow her brow. “Take my hand now or Mr. Feltsman will notice. I can imagine better things than being yelled at.”

“That would imply something. As if he had touched her before marriage,” August argued, “and I won't stand for that.”

Sara rolled her eyes and Yuuri, tucking away his glasses again, heard her mutter something in her Neapolitan dialect that he was half-sure translated to something along the lines of “Goddamn Protestants.”

Most of Yuuri's friends here were Protestant, but in this particular case he could not help but agree with her.

“Yuuri, help me, will you?!”

The music swelled and the curtain rose.

Yuuri noticed that their tiny, tiny audience listened and watched with rapt attention. Well, at least any dressing-down they would receive today would wait until the spectators were gone.

Sara finally relented and held her hands, palm against palm, up like in prayer.

August did the same.

Yuuri counted the beats until he set in. “ Euch segne der, der einzig segnen kann,” he began. “Mit besten Segen heut und immerdar.” Amazingly enough the corset did what it was supposed to do. As he stood above the couple his back was straight, his chest wide, his breathing even and deep. His voice was deeper and fuller like that as well. “Und führe froh hinaus, was froh bgann!” With that he took Sara's and August's hands and folded them into each other. “Nun küßt Euch beyd, ihr seyd ein bräutlich Paar!”

It took August only a moment of staring before Sara gave his hand a squeeze and he sang, turning to her. “Musst ja nicht so scheu, süße Taub', erbeben. Hin fließt unser Leben nun in Lieb und Treu'!”

They sang together again and again were joined by Undine's parents.

Yuuri as the priest reminded them to be faithful and kind to each other to maintain their happiness in life. “Halt an Lieb' und Treue fest, du liebend’ Paar. Macht ja Lieb und Treue alles Hoffen wahr.” Yes, he could do well with that. The corset was indeed a help for his baritone. He still didn't like it much.

The bass playing the water spirit Kühleborn stood at the side, in Yuuri's back. He could hear him from behind. “Menschenvolk, närrisches, trügrisches, herrisches, tolles Geschlecht! Freust dich wohl recht?”

They all together sang in fear of the storm Kühleborn had brought with him, angry about Undine's marriage to a human man. “Wehe, was wanket, was rauschet am Fenster! Weichet von hinnen, ihr nächtigen Gespenster.”

Yuuri made sure to take a step back and actually falter a bit as he asked for a place to rest after that bit of excitement (and possibly because he would not be able to leave the house in the midst of a storm). “Führt mich zur Lagerstätte – mich schwindelt's hier und graust.”

He was put to rest and - waiting in the wings - listened as Undine confessed her true nature as a water spirit, lacking a soul, and the rules that stated that she would have to kill with her own hand any lover who betrayed her. It was touching to listen to and at least for the moment one was tempted to believe Huldbrand would stay faithful to his new wife.

He came out again and Sara looked up, flinching away as her character was quite startled by the pater being awake and having heard her confession.

Yuuri smiled and raised a hand. “Nun kommt zu vollenden, was glücklich begonnen. An heiliger Stätte, da will ich Euch trau'n.”

Sara’s body relaxed at his words. She looked to August and actually conjured up a smile despite August doing no such thing. Nonetheless they sang together their agreement. “So sey denn die Reise, die freudige, begonnen. An heiliger Stätte, da sollt ihr uns trau'n.”

It went well. Yuuri sang through his parts, voice firm and full and the words securely in his mind and easily on his tongue. He slipped away to sing in the chorus when his – for the moment – last line as Pater Heilmann was sung and returned to his role to remind Huldbrand to not break his vows to Undine. And then, yes indeed, then it was over.

“Süßes Wähnen, schaut voll Andacht da hinein,” they lamented all together as Huldbrand accepted his death by Undine's hand and died happily to be with her, “Möchte bey Undinen seyn. Gute Nacht, alle Erdensorg und Pracht.”

The last note was sung and the last sound hung in the air for a little longer.

And the curtain fell.

Yuuri let out a breath. That had went well. Very well, actually. And he even remembered it.

“That was really good,” Alexander commented next to him. “I mean you sounded better than before in rehearsals anyways, but this was really good.”

Yuuri smiled. “Thank you. And you don't know how hard I worked to get there.” Viktor, after all, was a very strict teacher.

“I have an idea. Curtain call, get ready to get out.”

Yuuri rolled his eyes. “We really have to practise that every time as well, huh?”

“Yes.” Alexander gave him a shove that sent him out on stage, the same moment Plisetsky stepped out on the other side of the stage.

The took their bows and then places at the side.

Being the most minor roles they stood quite on the sidelines, the fisherman and his wife on Yuuri's side, Berthalda and Kühleborn on the side of Plisetsky.

In the middle they had left some room and the moment the chorus had taken their place behind the soloists, August and Sara came out, looked around and curtsied and bowed.

It was over. The first dress rehearsal was over and done with and it had gone remarkably well.

Yuuri let out a deep breath. He hadn't messed up. He had done well. Or at least he had not done too bad, right?

Mr. Feltsman had listened carefully to the whole rehearsal, making notes throughout it all. Now he came up to them.

“Chorus. We need to practise. Sing with more energy. You sound tired! Tomorrow we practise!”

The chorus mumbled something in agreement.

The ballet dancers ushered off now to hear the verdict of their instructor.

Yuuri listened as Mr. Feltsman launched a critique on Plisetsky's lackluster performance. “If you too tired to sing properly, boy, get sleep! Lots of sleep. Sleep is good for you!”

Plisetsky made a face at that, but was wise enough not to argue.

Mila in turn was advised to be less dramatic and also show more affection towards Huldbrand, rather than being so interested in the friendship her rival Undine was offering her.

He had less complaints about his two bass singers, just grunting to the freelance singer playing Kühleborn to work on his volume modulation. “Not good if you yell Undine into submission. Won't work and spoil idea you two like each other.”

Finally he turned to Yuuri, letting his eyes wander up and down on him. “Wearing corset, are you?”

Yuuri quickly nodded.

“Good. Sounds better. You used to it already, also good. Not much extra work on that needed. You work hard.” He nodded gruffly. “Now work on your acting. Stronger.”

Again Yuuri nodded. “I will work on it.”

“Good.” He turned around and clapped his hands. “Done for today!”

The cluster they had formed now dissolved and their small audience got up from their chairs to come backstage to them.

The moment they themselves got there, a few boys and three girls, all somewhere between fourteen and sixteen, stormed towards them. Yuuri watched with amusement as the girls started looking Sara, Mila and their Duchess singer Elise Herfurth up and down, lifting their arms and inspecting seams before nodding and following them to presumably their dressing rooms.

He stopped chuckling when a boy stood before him, staring. “Hello.”

Quickly he put his glasses on, enjoying the fact that he could perceive the world around him with clarity once more.

“So,” the boy said and he spoke quite slowly, “the clothes are still good? Everything fine?” He also gestured towards the hems and sleeves.

Yuuri nodded. “Yes, I think they are fine. I understand and speak German perfectly well, but thank you for your consideration.”

The boy looked slightly taken aback but then continued, “Are the shoulders,” he proceeded to hug himself to show which area of the costume he meant, “Are they good? Not too tight? Not too loose?” He still spoke annoyingly slow.

Well, maybe he _was_ a bit slow.

Yuuri forced himself to smile. “Yes. Everything is perfectly alright. As is my grasp on the German language, as you can hear.”

The boy stared at him once more and then shrugged. “You bring,” he gestured walking with this fingers, “the costume”, he pointed at the priest frock Yuuri was still wearing, “to the costume department. For fixing. Fixing.”

By now Yuuri was convinced that the boy was either incredibly dumb or incredibly gifted at playing dumb.

Either way, he had more important matters at hand and thus he simply shrugged, nodded and then turned to leave for his dressing room.

Taking off the smock without tearing the stitches Lena Freudenberg had made was an effort, but thankfully Yuuri was a patient man, at least with clothes that were not his, that had stitches to be mindful of and that didn’t annoy him with their mere presence on his body.

He stared down on his corseted stomach with a flare of utter loathing in his throat. Putting the stupid thing on had been a hassle. Now taking it off would be yet another nightmare. The clerk who had sold Yuuri the corset had shown him how to lace himself up (not that it had helped much) and how to take it off again. That had looked easy enough and bracing himself he sucked in his stomach as much as he still could and then pulled both sides of the planchet together.

The upper and lower three hooks opened. The middle four stuck together and sucking in another breath, pulling the damned thing together again.

The middle hooks came undone the same moment the upper hooks entwined again.

“Grah, damn, damn – fuck it!” He sighed, breathed in, breathed out – and then tried again.

A few more fumblings later it finally, finally came loose.

The sudden freedom flooded over Yuuri's body and had him stumble forward, keeling over his vanity, gasping.

Was _that_ what was supposed to be so good about a corset that Viktor liked them so much? Well, alright, Yuuri could see that point but surely there was no need to force yourself into the bloody thing and wear it for hours on end just for the experience of taking it off, right?

There was a knock, just as he rolled the corset up to a tight bundle to put it away.

Yuuri flinched. He might have squeaked softly. A visitor had not been on the list of things he had expected today. “Yes?” he then called, “who is it?”

“It's me, Phichit!”

Yuuri stepped into his trousers. “Come in!”

The door opened and Phichit entered just as Yuuri had shrugged on his shirt and started buttoning it up.

“Hello, I'm sorry...”

“Oh, no.” Phichit shook his head. “I can wait outside until you are done?”

“I almost am.” Yuuri cleared his throat. “How did you like the rehearsal?”

“It seemed to go well.” Phichit beamed at him. “Dress rehearsals usually go pretty crazy I hear, but this one was performance ready if you ask me.”

“Let's just hope the next rehearsals go just as well. Maybe even get better.” Yuuri took the liberty to stretch his shoulders.

“You were wearing a corset today?” Phichit asked. “I paid the bill two days ago. Would have thought you would go for something more expensive.”

“No need for that. The one I got is perfectly fine. The colour is even, the material is good, it has no frills that would show through the outer garments and most importantly it is durable and hopefully will do me service for a long time.”

“Too bad you have taken it off already.” Phichit batted his eyelashes at him. “Would you show me?”

“Uh... sure.” It figured, Yuuri supposed. Phichit had paid for the thing. Yuuri grabbed the corset and unrolled it again, holding up.

Phichit came closer. “I still maintain my position that you could have picked something fancier, but yes, it looks good to me.”

Yuuri shrugged. “I wear it under my costume. Nobody will ever see it on my body.”

Phichit mumbled something under his breath that Yuuri was half sure to understand as “What a pity”.

What?

He cleared his throat. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh, right.” Phichit's face shifted as if he had just remembered the reason for his being here at all. “I wanted to ask for some of your time. Lunch. Or dinner. Dinner would actually be preferable.”

Yuuri nodded before he realized he was doing it and then shrugged. “Dinner sounds nice, yes.”

Phichit's face lit up. “I know you have a busy schedule, when would it be good for you?”

He thought about it quickly. “I am, rehearsal and performance aside, generally free on Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and of course Sunday.” The other days belonged to Viktor and Yuuri had been careful to juggle him and their lessons with meeting with friends. “On the other days lunch would be a possibility on performance days.”

“I'd rather have dinner, so how about next Tuesday? How is your evening?”

“ _Vampyr_ ,” Yuuri sighed. “You don't have to bother to see the performance, though, it is – not exactly what I would call an intriguing work.”

“Ah. Yes.” Phichit nodded. “I've read some reviews in the newspapers... say, are you free now? It's Thursday.”

“Yes, sure.”

“Great, how about lunch? I haven't seen the _Vampyr,_ so another opinion – from someone partaking in it – would be interesting too.”

So an invitation for dinner in a few days and a spontaneous one for lunch right now? Yuuri was glad Phichit enjoyed his company, but this was – well, Yuuri had not a proper word for it. And he had no reason to reject the offer. Also it was a free lunch and good company.

“Sure.” He nodded. “I’ll just finish up here.”

“Wonderful!” Phichit smiled again in that fashion that made it decidedly hard to refuse him anything if he asked for it with that expression. “I will wait outside then. See you in a bit.” With that he dashed off and Yuuri let out a breath.

From behind him there was a rustle and he flinched.

“Sorry, did I startle you?”

Viktor. Of course.

Yuuri turned around and spotted him in a corner behind his closet. He arched an eyebrow at him. “Do I want to know why and how you are in my dressing room?”

“As any self-respecting theatre, this one is riddled with secret passageways. I had a few years to find them all.” At least Viktor had the decency to look a bit guilty. “I guess I should have asked if you want me here?”

Yuuri couldn't suppress a smile. “You should.”

“Apologies. Am I allowed to move about your dressing room?”

“Of course. Just let me know when you are here, yes? It would be weird to undress without knowing whether you're around or not.”

Viktor chuckled, coming closer. “Knowing that I am watching makes it better then?”

Yuuri reached out, took his hand and pulled him close. “Maybe?” He felt his lips twitch up into a smile. “Most of all not being sure whether I'm watched or not makes me a bit queasy and I don't like feeling queasy.”

Viktor lifted his arm and got Yuuri to twirl around a bit. “Alright. I will make sure to make my presence known. Also, I think your Siamese sponsor fancies you. Not that I can blame him.”

Yuuri sighed. “Guess so. Too bad, I really like him.” He blinked up to him. “Also, I would have expected you to be more jealous.”

“Jealousy in general speaks of a lack of trust in the other or of a lack of self confidence.” Viktor ran a hand through Yuuri's hair. “I am not prone to either. I could act more jealous and possessive if you like, though.”

Yuuri pulled him down and kissed him on the nose. “Dear God, no.” Then he let go of him. “I should get ready, he'll be wondering where I am. And I need to drop the costume off.”

Viktor nodded and pressed a kiss on his cheek. “Enjoy lunch. See you later.” With that he went back into his corner and then he was gone as suddenly as he had shown up.

Yuuri smiled and took up the corset again. He rolled it up tightly and put it into his closet before putting on his waistcoat and then leaving to bring the smock back to the costume department.

Mrs. Freudenberg, interrupting her work on a dress, inspected it briefly before nodding, smiling and then returning to her work. Having done that Yuuri was now free, at least for now. After lunch he would still have the _Vampyr_ to deal with, after all.

Lunch with Phichit was decidedly nice. Yuuri had a chance to rip into the _Vampyr_ , much to Phichit’s delight; for someone of such a sunny disposition he had a surprising appreciation for sarcasm and Yuuri enjoyed snarking for a bit. While he and his friends indulged in this little pleasure often enough , they all would dig their barbs into the same points about most things, particularly when the _Vampyr_ was concerned. Or maybe occasionally Yuri Plisetsky. God knew the boy with his drama, his anger issues and his moodiness offered them perfect material, no matter how much Yuuri had started to like him. He suspected that Viktor, had he been around and known, would have found himself the cause and receiver for quite some good-natured snark as well, not the least of it from Yuuri himself.

Phichit gladly joined into the game, although his favourite victims seemed to be the collection of business partners of his family's company.

“Imagine,” he sighed, “a room full of crusty Englishmen and me just seventeen and there for the first time. Apparently a Siamese youth in Western clothing translates to manservant over there, because they wanted to know why Mr. Phichit Chula had sent his page boy rather than appearing in person. If he was afraid of being torn apart by them.”

Yuuri took a bite of his potatoes. “Delightful. Am I glad not to be in your line of business.”

“Be so. I sighed and told them that there was not much to fear as they could not even be bothered to read the intel of their negotiations partner.” Phichit smiled wryly. “Needless to say they at least changed that. At least when their Siamese business partners were concerned. Pity they didn't show the same suaveness when it came to their colonial trade posts. But I suppose that's a given when a country is under your country's control. One could hardly expect them to pay attention to every minor detail.”

It _was_ a nice lunch indeed.

“You know,” Phichit said at some point, close to the end of their meeting, “if you had for some reason wound up in international trade it is very unlikely we would have ever met.” He smiled somewhat wistfully and Yuuri’s stomach lurched a little. He did not like where this appeared to be going.

“I would deeply regret that,” Phichit continued. “And also I would regret never hearing you sing.” His smile grew softer, causing Yuuri's stomach to lurch even more.

“We might still meet,” he said, “International businesses tend to intertwine on occasion.”

“But in that case our relationship would be purely business.” With a shrug Phichit reached for his wine and took a sip. Yuuri did the same. After lunch he would have to get himself some tea. Chamomile or peppermint preferably, even though he shuddered at the thought of a hot drink in this weather.

“Even a good business relationship is not nearly as rewarding and warm as a friendship. Or what I perceive as such.” Phichit shot Yuuri an inquiring look.

The lurch in his stomach made room for some genuine warmth and ease as he returned the smile. “I'd be glad if you did so.” At least that he could accept and reciprocate without any complications and messes.

The lunch was most definitely nice.

“I fear you are right,” Yuuri sighed in between exercises that evening.

Viktor looked up from sheets of music before him; he was using the little break to play a few tunes Yuuri had never heard before and jotting them down. “I am right rather often,” he replied. “Care to elaborate?”

“Well, we both were right. On the same thing, in the same way.” Yuuri rolled his shoulder. “Phichit does fancy me.”

“Oh, did he say something?”

“Not really, but he acted in a way that I would not describe as exactly subtle.” Being done stretching his shoulders he folded his hands behind his back and continued to pull down his arms. “I mean, _I_ noticed and I am anything but perceptive in these matters.”

Viktor chuckled. “You are too harsh on yourself. You noticed that I was in love with you pretty soon.”

Yuuri considered his words very carefully. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you are not exactly what I would call subtle. And it still took me a few weeks to get it. “

“If you say so. Can you give me this note?” He pressed a key on the cembalo and Yuuri took a breath before sending out the note.

“How about this?” Viktor asked and played another note.

Yuuri obliged and Viktor played another note and another and Yuuri sang them all until a melody formed.

Inwardly chuckling he found the words. “Abendlüftchen schweben um die Wangen traut und der Blätter Weben flüstert süßen Laut.” It was strange hearing himself sing the part he had come to associate with Mila Babitch, but Viktor had keyed the melody down to match his Tenor. He played through Berthalda's part and then stopped, getting up and coming next to him. “Leise Wölkchen ziehen durch das Himmelszelt. Wie sie weilen, fliehen - immer froh gesellt,” he sang, sweet and light and Yuuri would have loved to see him in his youth, lithe and willowy and all watery silver and earthy ivory, clad in the same cloudy grey as Sara Crispino had been today, singing her part.

“So gesellt uns zweye, treu durch Schwestersinn, ziehn in froher Weihe durch das Leben hin,” they finished together, a declaration of kinship, of sorts. And proof that Berthalda might seem to like Undine.

“Well, my opinion will never change,” Viktor sighed. “Undine and Berthalda together are a much more compelling pairing than either of them with Huldbrand. No matter who sings them.”

“Are we really the best example for that?” Yuuri asked. “Let me sing with August, then we can test that theory.”

Viktor shook his head. “No. No, no, no, I have heard him and his voice does not go along well with yours. You and Yura, though...” He chuckled. “You would match their characters and dynamics pretty well, too. And I would love to sing a Huldbrand to you two.”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “You seem to like that role a lot.”

“I fear I relate a bit too much to him and his impulsiveness, as I said.” Viktor chuckled. “Similarities end there, though. But I think the three of us could play off one another quite well. What do you say, shall we pack up and head down?”

Yuuri nodded and smiled. “Sounds good to me.”

Silent as mice they climbed down the stairs and ladders and corridors and only when they had reached Viktor's lair they spoke again.

“Pay attention to it,” Viktor said. “To him.”

“Phichit?” Yuuri made a face, watching Viktor go around the cave and lighting only the lamp at the bed. It was late. No more singing tonight, no reading either, only sleep.

Or maybe not.

The moment Yuuri had sat down and started taking his shirt off, Viktors arms – already naked and pale and warm – snaked around his waist and Viktor's nose brushed over his neck. “Hm. Maybe he will say something in time. Maybe he will not. If he will not, maybe he will act a bit more obviously.”

“More than he does already?”

“Yes.” Viktor pressed a kiss on Yuuri's cheek as he interlaced their fingers. “From what you tell and what I have seen, it would be bad manners from you to address this matter. He would have to act like a lover without having ever said something to that effect for that.” He turned Yuuri around, pulling him even closer. “And considering he would want something from you he should be the one doing the talking.”

Yuuri freed his hands and started unbuttoning his shirt. “Alright then. So, assume he does some talking and it turns out that all his talk of sponsoring me was to ensure my gratitude and to get me in bed. What then?”

Viktor took it upon himself to push it off his shoulders and pull it from his arms. His hands lingered on Yuuri's wrists. “You are awfully distrustful towards someone you like and whom you consider a good person.”

“I grew up in an opera house, remember?” Yuuri sighed. “Being a good person doesn't mean that you won't spend money on someone to get into their good graces. Or at the very least, their beds.”

“You think your Siamese suitor thinks along these lines?”

“I would appreciate if you didn’t call him that.”

“Sorry, love.” Viktor ran a finger over Yuuri’s cheek. “I will no more.  But if he is acting with such intentions he is in no way as good a man as you are taking him for. Or I am, for that matter.”

“He _is_ a good man,” Yuuri argued. Apparently Viktor had not listened to him before. Or he had forgotten what Yuuri had said over now taking up the very important task of massaging his shoulders.

Viktor’s fingers dug into his shoulders, sending the most delightful sting of pain and then relaxation down his spine. “Yuuri,” he whispered, voice dark and firm and serious, “I want you to listen to me very carefully now, yes?”

Yuuri turned his head and looked at Viktor's furrowed brow and his shadowed eye. “I am.”

“Someone who on purpose has you feel guilty or takes care that you feel like you owe them something is not a good person. Not. A good. Person. It is terrible to dangle a debt over you head that you never wanted to incur. It is terrible to use that debt to get you to do whatever they want. It is terrible. It is not good.” Viktor leaned his brow against Yuuri's. “Understand that?”

Yuuri nodded slightly. “I think I do.” He reached out, touching Viktor's hand. “Thank you. To be honest, he probably is not thinking along these lines. Or doing it on purpose.”

“Hm. If he uses his sponsorship though to get into your pants you are still free to decline. If he does not want a scandal, he will accept it.”

Their fingers interlaced.

“And with some luck he _is_ decent and you would have a friend in any case. Important, too. And good.”

Yuuri sighed. “Would that even work out without being awkward?”

“Company is always appreciated,” Viktor said. Now that he had gotten his point across, he moved his hands over Yuuri's skin again, causing him to writhe just the tiniest bit. “Especially from people like us. It is always nice to be somewhat understood.” His lips fell onto Yuuri's shoulder. “Sex is not the only thing we might seek from another.”

Yuuri chuckled and now completely turned around to face him. “Really now?”

“Really.”

But nonetheless sex was what they both wanted now, craving physical intimacy and the feeling of them entwined, wound around each other. They wanted it. They needed it. They gave it.

“I had a chat with Yakov,” Viktor mumbled into the crook of Yuuri's neck, while Yuuri idly ran his fingers through his long, fine hair.

“Hm, so?”

“First off, he agrees with me on the corset.”

Ah. So Viktor had been behind that. Yuuri sighed. “I noticed. I was wearing the blasted thing. In case you didn't notice me taking it off when you showed up in my dressing room.”

Viktor chuckled. “Too bad, I was late. I only came in when you were already in your undershirt.”

Yuuri bent over to kiss him on the forehead. “Well, show up a bit earlier on time if you want to see it.”

“Or you could wear it a bit longer.”

Yuuri chuckled. “You would have to do some really hard work to convince me to do that.”

Viktor's hand wandered over Yuuri's waist and then over his thigh.

Yuuri was too tired to get excited about it, too comfortable, too heavy, too happy holding Viktor in his arms just like that. But the touch felt so good. A soft, warm thrumming noise built up in his chest and his throat.

Viktor let his hand lie where it was. “However, since he does not like when all I am doing is gushing about you, we also talked about Yura.” Now his voice grew serious again. “Did you notice anything about him?”

“Aside from that he seems to not catch enough sleep?”

“Ah, so you noticed. It does fit too. Apparently he is roaming around a lot these days. Late at night, too.”

“Oh.” Yuuri shifted himself to sit up a bit. Viktor, remaining as he was, slid down on him, his head resting in Yuuri's lap.

“In any case, he will leave unannounced, be it from the theatre or from home and he tells not where he is going and when he is going to be back and then he stays away all night. Sometimes he will even not be at home in the morning. At the very least, though, at these times he is with me. I and Yakov compared times. That is something at least.”

“Has he changed in any way when he is around?”

“Not towards me and not towards Yakov either.”

“And to me he is as affectionate as an angry hedgehog, so nothing new there as well.” Yuuri sighed. ”What about money?” Yuuri asked, “Did anything change about how he spends it? Or how much?”

Viktor shook his head. “Not as far as Yakov can see.”

“Hm. So a lover can be ruled out, I suppose.”

Viktor blinked up to him. “I know, I do joke about it too,” he said slowly, “but Yuuri, you know how old the boy is?”

“I know. Very young, but not a little child either, so...” Yuuri shrugged. “Unless you are in trouble or have sick relatives, a love affair would be the most likely thing to spend money on, right?” And then, with a sigh and very slowly he added, “Or something that would get you money.”

Viktor shook his head. “Sometimes you really trouble me, dear.”

“As I said, I grew up at the theatre. Same as you.”

“Me and Yura were entertainment slaves in all but name,” Viktor argued. “Which is a disgusting concept in itself, but...” He sighed. “These sort of things did not happen. Not like this.”

“How did they happen then?”

Viktor shrugged. “Someone had demand for you and you delivered if your Landlord gave them access to you. We are comparing slavery to prostitution here. I like neither of these.”

Yuuri nodded. “Sorry. Guess I think it too normal.”

“Outside of serf staffed private theatres it probably is. And I still do not like it. And I dearly hope Yura will never start with this.”

“You want him to get a sponsor, though.”

“Yes, because that does not necessarily mean...” Viktor's grasp on Italian left him for now and Yuuri listened to him mutter under his breath in what probably was Russian. “Well, at least I hope so.”

“Not necessarily, yes,” Yuuri confirmed.

For a moment they were silent again.

“Do not get me wrong, I would be happy if Yura was in love. Or had an actual affair going. God knows he could do with the social contact. He is not particularly good with these.”

“I couldn't help but notice,” Yuuri interjected dryly.

“But if he ever starts things like these or gets drawn into this sort of relationship, no, no. I would very much like him not to think that his bed is a trading booth.” He sighed. “But in any case, this is not what is happening, right?”

“Supposedly not.” Yuuri squeezed his shoulder. “He is not drinking, though, and probably not dabbling with opium – does Dresden have any opium dens?”

“Yes,” Viktor mumbled.

“Alright, he is not visiting them.”

“How would you know?”

“He would look and act differently. Mr. Feltsman would have noticed. And you would ~~then~~ know. You don't know, though, so we can rule that out.”

“Hm. You are probably right,” Viktor sighed, but he did not sound like he was agreeing with Yuuri. Nonetheless, he tightened his arms around Yuuri's waist, curling himself tighter around him.

Yuuri ran a hand through his hair, listening to his breath evening out. They were silent for a long time and Yuuri almost thought Viktor might have fallen asleep at last.

Then, suddenly he said, “So – you were trying to woo me with bread, cheese and cuts of duck?”

“What?” Yuuri blinked. Bread? Cheese? Duck? Wooing? He pondered it for a second and then chuckled. “Well, it worked, didn't it?”

“It did.” Viktor ran a hand up Yuuri's side, making him squirm a bit. “Even though you did forget the wine.” His fingers started to dance now, sending ripples of delight through Yuuri's body until laughter pooled out. “Really, what proper wooing works without wine?”

Yuuri fought for breath. “Well,” he finally managed, “a proper wooing works best on proper people. I had to improvise.”

In response, Viktor's fingers danced again, faster now and relentless until Yuuri begged for mercy amidst his laughter.

 

The main problem with Yuri Plisetsky was, Yuuri found, that the boy was for all intents and purposes a hedgehog. Hedgehogs were cute and adorable and one could delight in looking at them for hours. Sadly, their looks were about the only thing that could be considered cute and accessible about these little balls of pricks.

This posed something of a problem, considering the fact that Yuuri had promised Viktor to have a bit of an eye on the boy. Plisetsky was not too talkative to any of his peers and unless Yuuri found a reasonable basis for conversation, the boy would only shoot him a dark glare and then wander off.

At the very least, he could work on that. At the very least Plisetsky's idol was a rather busy man, who had written, composed and occasionally directed several operas. Also he had so far authored two essays about Ludwig van Beethoven and his Ninth Symphony.

Yuuri himself was fond of the latter, so maybe he could find some common ground here.

The next few days he spent his free time in some bookstores, digging through magazines and folios, before finally giving up and placing an order at his favourite store, the one with the grumpy clerk girl.

She had been less than thrilled to take an order for essays that had been published one eight, one two years ago and in different magazines no less and Yuuri had felt her wrath when she had asked him to pay part of the price in advance.

But at the very least she worked fast. She had said something about it taking a week to get the books. And when Yuuri showed up a week later, indeed, there they were, wrapped in brown paper, ready for him to read once he had paid the remaining sum and left the woman to be grumpy and moody to her heart's content.

There was no way, though, that he would let any of his friends see him reading the writings of Richard Wagner in his free time.

And now here he was, sitting on the basement floor next to Viktor's violin starting with a report Mr. Wagner had written and published in 1840 about a journey to Vienna with the express goal to visit his idol Ludwig van Beethoven.

Yuuri had an inkling of suspicion that the apparently infamous animosity between Viktor and Richard Wagner at its core was also a case of two incredibly dramatic people unable to bear someone equally dramatic. At least Viktor’s own nature pointed towards this, as well as the fact that Richard Wagner had called this journey of his a pilgrimage.

If Yuuri was to choose, though, he definitely preferred whatever incarnation of drama Viktor had to offer. At least his drama didn’t come in form of a somewhat autobiographical novella written in a style that was overstuffed and so saturated that it dripped that Yuuri was close to vomiting. (Also far too self-congratulatory for his taste).

He looked up in relief when he heard Viktor’s steps approaching and closed the  book.

“Hello there.” Viktor smiled down at him and offered him a hand. “Have you been waiting long?”

Yuuri got up. “Not really. And I got something to while away the time.” He held up the book.

Immediately Viktor’s face twisted. “Urgh,” he declared and then repeated, “Urgh. Really! This is disgusting!” He shivered and it looked both genuine and extremely exaggerated. “Urgh.” Then he paused and waved for Yuuri to follow him down the corridor.

The door closed and the moment darkness fell around them Viktor said, “Oh, _koschteschka_ , how could this have happen?! Tell me, who did this to you?!”

Despite the darkness Yuuri blinked. “What?”

“I promise you, Yura, you will not go unavenged! As much as I disapprove of you possessing my lover, I am sure you have your reasons and be assured, name your murderer and I will see that there will be retribution!”

“No need for that,” Yuuri sighed. “Plisetsky is fine, I saw him at rehearsal.”

“Ah.” Viktor's somewhat confused blink was almost audible in his voice. “Well, in that case, would you please kindly tell me who you are and what you have done with my dearest? What are your conditions? What do I have to do to get him back? Speak!”

By now Yuuri really had to laugh. “I am fine, Viktor, really. But good that my apparent interest in the works of Richard Wagner could fool you, I am pretty sure it will work on Plisetsky as well.”

There was a moment of silence from Viktor. “You are reading this awful stuff to get closer to Yura?”

Yuuri shrugged and then found himself searching for and finally finding Viktor's hand. “Well, I did promise to have an eye on him, didn't I? I figured I should understand how that hot little head of his works first, right?”

“Right.” Viktor sighed and gave his hand a squeeze. “Right.”

So on Viktor it had worked.

Now the only question was how Yuuri could get it to work on Plisetsky as well.

 

As it turned out, there was not much work involved in getting it to work on Plisetsky.

All Yuuri had to do was striking up a conversation about Beethoven with Sara and Johannes Erhardt and pay attention that Plisetsky was in earshot when he said, “Didn't Wagner write something about him? I think I've seen something like that in a book store.”

In his corner, perched over his book, Yuri Plisetsky didn't move. The page he had been about to turn fell back.

Johannes Erhardt shrugged. “Did so.” He didn't sound like he wanted to elaborate on that.

Sara raised an eyebrow. “You are showing interest in Mr. Wagner? Are you quite alright?” She put her hand on his brow and then sighed. “Well, at least you are not feverish.”

Yuuri laughed. “I'm fine, but thank you for the concern.”

Sara raised her other eyebrow. “Well, if you say so. Yuri, dear!”

Yuri Plisetsky looked up as if he hadn't listened to them. “What?!”

“You're the big Richard-Wagner-expert here, right?”

Plisetsky sighed and put his book away – something in Russian, Yuuri noted, the cyrillic title stamped in gold lettering into the linen of the cover. Then he unfolded his body from his slouch and then came up to them. “Yeah, what's it?”

“The guy wrote something about Beethoven, right? Yuuri was asking,” Sara explained.

It earned Yuuri a lopsided, inquiring look. “Was he now?”

Yuuri shrugged. “I do plan on staying here quite a while. Might as well learn something about the people who shaped this theatre.”

Sara made a movement as if to check him for fever again, but apparently she caught herself in time and backed off again.

“Hm. He mostly did that as a director and instructor, really.” Plisetsky gave a wave that both bid farewell to Johannes Erhardt and to Sara and beaconed Yuuri to follow him.

He bid them goodbye and fell into step next to him.

Plisetsky walked out of the theatre and on the streets. “I've read the stuff Mr. Wagner wrote about Mr. Beethoven. He adores him and very much rightfully so.”

Yuuri shrugged. “Anyone with ears and half a mind for music would.”

Plisetsky shot him a sharp grin, that was probably meant to look friendly, but in fact mostly managed to scare Yuuri a little bit. “True that. Mr. Wagner took notice of me during a rehearsal for the Ninth Symphony. First time he ever did. First time anyone here was friendly.”

“You and Viktor are from Russia, right? It must have been lonely here for you two.”

“It was.” Plisetsky's mouth shook for a moment and then set itself into a firm line. “Not so much for Viktor, though. I mean, one could be disgusted at how easily he makes friends and forgets that some people exist.”

Yuuri wanted to protest, wanted to say that there was nothing further away from the truth, but if he did, Plisetsky would probably clam up again, stomp off and Yuuri would have to spend another few weeks to get him to actually talk to him.

“You’re the same,” Plisetsky growled. “Being liked by anyone and everyone wherever you go as soon as you open your mouth. It’s disgusting.”

Yuuri laughed humourlessly as they headed for the river Elbe. “I think the population of Milan begs to differ.”

“City of fools. Be glad that you’ve left.”

“August downright loathes me, it seems.”

“Tool,” Plisetsky made his judgement. “Don’t trust anyone who doesn’t want to sing with Sara.”

Yuuri chuckled. “Good to know. So at the very least I can trust you, despite your utter contempt for me?”

Plisetsky stared at him and opened his mouth as if in protest. Then said mouth fell shut.

Finally he said, “Anyways, Mr. Wagner took the time to work with me and he was kind enough to see potential in me – urgh, you’re rubbing off! I hate that!”

“Then don’t say it,” Yuuri sighed as they passed a small vendor, selling fist sized apple fruit pies. Lonely child that someone had seemingly taken seriously.

Well, Yuuri couldn’t say that he wouldn’t have been susceptible too at some point.

Plisetsky shrugged. “Not like I decided to. That’s you and your influence! Gross!”

Yuuri chuckled and then stopped at the vendor, buying two pies, one apple, one cherry. “It’s always up to you what you take and what not, so for now I take it as a compliment to have some influence over you. Apple or cherry?”

Plisetsky made a face. “You don't have influence over me. Cherry.”

Yuuri handed him the pastry. Maybe, he mused, maybe this was the way to go. Maybe this was how Plisetsky opened up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, thanks again for checking back in again! I'm sorry for the confusion last chapter when I said there's a cameo hidden in it. In fact - the cameo is here. I'm sorry.  
> Otherwise... day-to-day shennanigans again. I was serious when I said there would be no drama ever anymore, nope, nope, nope, no drama. Nope.
> 
> Anyways. Next chapter will come at August 24th. Additionally, keep your eyes open around September 2nd. What better way to celebrate turning 30, old, adult and mature than by posting bonus material for a fanfic, eh? :D
> 
> In other news, I have a new flatmate. Last friday, a beautiful little fur demon moved in with me. A fur demon who occasionally listens to the name "Elaine" (whenever she chooses or I wave with the treat bag).  
> She's wonderful and I regularly post pictures of her on my instagram manyasiber.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corsetry, opening nights and... still no drama! No more drama never!

**Chapter 14**

 

The opening night for the  _Vampyr_ had passed lukewarm and without too much coverage in the newspapers next day.

None of them had expected the opera to be a raging success, so it didn't bother them too much, but the lack of coverage was sort of insulting nonetheless.

“One could think we all just stood on stage and did nothing,” Johannes snorted. “Which, truth be told, would make for a better opera.”

The first critiques rustled in one and a half weeks after opening night and they found themselves huddled together in groups, reading them out loud to another.

“A high point of the _Vampyr_ is, as it is usus with the Royal Court Theatre, the cast. Sara Crispino dazzles everyone as Malwina and Mila Babitch's small appearance as Janthe nonetheless delivered of the promise her performance in Lortzing's _Wildschütz_ had given,” Thomas read to them from the current article. It was after the dress rehearsal, they were all exhausted and somewhat grouchy; today had been a bad one with everything going wrong that could go wrong, starting with Mila forgetting half of her lines and ending with several stage props falling down and almost hitting them.

Yuuri himself had given a rather lousy performance too today, but at the very least he hadn't been the only one to do so, although that was only a minor comfort today.

They all could use something to cheer up or at least something to commiserate about together. Yuuri just was not so sure that critiques about a suboptimal opera were the right way to go about the cheering up, although the commiseration was certainly served.

“Oh my, thank you.” Mila raised an eyebrow. “I wasn't aware I gave them any promises, good to get the reminder.”

Yuuri laughed with the others until Thomas continued, “Equally charming was young Yuri Plisetsky as Aubry. Yakov Feltsman here has proven himself again in choosing veterans of his theatre to support young, up-and-coming talents under his tutelage and the occasional freelance singer. The chorus managed to deliver a thrilling, chilling performance and contributed a lot to the uncanny atmosphere on stage.” He looked up. “We must be really good for them to acknowledge our existence.”

“You are,” Johannes Erhardt said.

Thomas' face flushed and he turned his attention back to the newspaper. “Sadly, not even this array of performances, ranging from decent and solid to stellar, are not enough to save the  _Vampyr_ from being the failure that it is.”

“Now that is harsh,” Yuuri said. “The thing is overblown and has too much going on, but it’s not _that_ awful.”

“Name one thing - just one - about the _Vampyr_ that you consider good,” Plisetsky challenged, sitting a foot or two away from the main congregation. Nonetheless he had been a rather avid listener so far.

Yuuri pondered it. “Well, the relationship between Ruthwen and Aubry had potential. The librettists could have done a lot with these, but they...”

“No, No, no what-ifs and no could-haves. Wohlbrück and Ritter wasted the chance. As did Marschner.” Plisetsky waved his hand. “Name something that _is_ good. Not could have been good and nothing that’s not bad. Unambiguously good.”

“Hm.” Yuuri thought about it for a moment. “Alright, alright, I admit defeat. It _is_ awful.”

Plisetsky, to his credit, didn't look too smug over his victory. “See? And you wonder why people stay away.”

“At least the opening night could have been better,” Sara grumped. “No full house, even then. How disappointing.”

“What do you expect?” Plisetsky made a face. “People get tired of hearing and seeing only tales of nobles and rich people who mess up and still come out of it on top. It gets old after a while. People don't like that. I don't like that.”

“Yeah, guess nobody who's not rich and born into nobility likes that,” Johannes mumbled.

They sat together a little longer, listening to a few more newspaper articles that were equally full of praise for the artists and equally dismissive of the artwork, and finally started to get their bearings when steps came closer.

Looking up they noticed that Mr. Feltsman was approaching them. He looked gruff and solemn and of course his face did not light up when he saw them. “Still here. Good. Good.” He nodded. “ _Vampyr_ is a failure. We need to pull out on it.”

Sara was the first to speak “Oh,” she said, “Oh dear, how sad.”

Mr. Feltsman snorted. “Don't be funny, girl.” He sighed. “ _Undine_ was planned to open in three weeks time. A lot of time for new singers to get used to sing solos. A lot of time to get used to idea of singing on stage solo.”

Was he looking at Yuuri as he was saying this? He really hoped not.

“Too bad. But we lose money with _Vampyr_. Too much money. _Undine_ will have to bring it back.” He sighed. “We are done with _Vampyr_.”

There was an almost ridiculous sigh of relief running through their little group. Finally. Finally. Finally they were free of this mess.

“July 23rd is premiere for _Undine_. Is short notice, I know. You are all good and firm in your lines. You will manage.”

July 23rd was three days from now. They've had had dress rehearsals four times a week and had gotten significantly better in their timing to each other, but still there were glitches. So far Yuuri had sung without a corset on, since he was doing well enough without one, at least for Mr. Feltsman's standards, which were high. ““Corset helps but is annoying,” he had admitted, “but you got used to it well. Wear it for performance. For rehearsal you do as you are.” Yuuri could have kissed the man for this.)

They shared some uneasy looks and finally Sara spoke up, “ _Maestro_ , is this already set in stone? It seems rather rushed.”

“Is rushed,” Mr. Feltsman admitted. “But cannot be helped.” He sighed. “You will manage. You are good enough for this. I will inform others tomorrow.” With that he turned around and left again.

They sat around, looking at each other and finally Johannes Erhardt sighed. “Well, it seems we got our wish. Tomorrow we will regret it.”

 

They did regret it.

Soloists and chorus singers alike were rather relaxed before the dress rehearsal started for today, but of course this all flew out of the window the moment Mr. Feltsman stepped up in front of them and announced his decision, along with the fact that “pushed forward” meant that today was their last chance to rehearse before going on stage in two days.

“Work hard,” he said at last. “Warm up.”

They were always highly focused at a dress rehearsal. They had to be. Nonetheless Yuuri found that dress rehearsals were the part of a production circle that was the most relaxed.

Today that was not so much the case.

First off, the notice of the unexpectedly fast approaching opening night seemed to have caught August off-guard. He wandered the stage in something of a daze, rather than desperately looking for Undine.

Thomas Weber, the bass that played Undine's foster father, on the other hand tried his best to look as distressed as his role in this scene demanded, potentially without showing his own onset of nerves. “Ach, Undine, holde Kleine, höre doch und komm' ins Haus!” he sang and then paused as he realized that he was singing alone.

The fact that some patrons of the theatre or its singers had shown up as an audience (Yuuri spotted Phichit) clearly did not help either.

August looked around and then realized that all eyes honed in on him.

“Kehre wieder!” Weber continued and now August joined him. “Nachts im Haine wohnet Spuk und wilder Graus!”

The Alto, Marie Eschner (with her fifty years half-retired already, Yuuri had only ever seen her for rehearsals of  _Undine_ ), sighed impatiently at them before starting her lines. “Ja, die kenn' ich!– Ganz alleine rennt sie fort und lacht euch aus. Eh' gehorchten Euch die Steine als ihr Köpfchen wild und kraus!” Her stare now rested on August. She obviously had little love for freelance singers, but right now August ranked even lower in her eyes.

“Lasst uns laufen, sie zu holen!” he quickly declared, a good bit too quickly. He missed one of the lower notes as well.

Mr. Feltsman's face remained stony.

“Das verwehrt mein lahmes Bein!” Weber declared his inability to run in search for his daughter. For emphasis he limped.

August faltered for a moment and then found his words again. “Gut, ich habe flücht'ge Sohlen,” he sang, announcing that he would look for the missing girl alone.

The scene played out with Weber's fisherman protesting that Huldbrandt should not be left to look for and finally find the girl alone, all the while Marie Escher as the fisherman's wife snarked her way through it.

She was the only solid performance here. Presumably it took more than an opening night pulled forward to faze her. Yuuri just hoped that someday he would acquire some of that serenity and self-assurance.

The scene changed and Weber had a long, wistful solo, recalling how Undine had come to him and his wife. To his credit, he delivered with a lot of feeling and a gentleness Yuuri found always astonishing when a bass displayed it. Also, the longer he went on the firmer his voice grew as he found his footing. Marie Escher nodded along.

Watersprites sang up a storm around their house, scaring them – August apparently into speechlessness.

The orchestra, on behest of their director repeated the phrases and the chorus fell in. “Schon gewonnen ist der Strand; Schlag ans Fenster, Wie Gespenſter - Macht zum Eiland diese Flur.”

Again he missed his line and they sang again.

“Weh! die Kleine!” he finally managed, “So alleine in der zürnenden Natur!”

Despite the protests of the fisherman and his wife he then got up and out to find the girl.

The scene transitioned to Sara Crispino's Undine and Johannes Erhardt's Kühleborn.

Both were as firm and confident as ever, not one moment of hesitation in their lines, even when the chorus messed up a bit.

Yuuri prayed that his performance would go over equally well, since unlike August, Thomas Weber and Marie Escher he had not learnt about the changed schedule just today. For him it could be just another dress rehearsal.

Sara's sparkling, clear soprano played off wonderfully against Johannes Erhardt's firm, earthy bass, either flowing around him as the water that her character was part of or turning into a sharp piece of glass, cutting through the darkness of Johannes Erhardt's voice.

They argued, fought even, around them rushed the water, sung by the spirits until Undine shooed them away as her knight approached her.

Undine and Huldbrand proceeded to fall in love with one another and again it seemed to overwhelm Huldbrand; August missed another line and the music died down.

“Stop!” Mr. Feltsman called. “Kästner!”

There was a short scuffle as Andreas emerged from the chorus. “Yes?”

“You prepared for the role? Yes? Good. You sing for today. Stadler, you take day off. Or sing chorus. What you like. And get rest. Sleep. Be ready tomorrow.”

August was pale at the dismissal and he rushed into the wings so quickly that he almost tripped. Yuuri felt a small, very small pinch of sympathy for him.

Andreas paled. “I am not sure I would do a better job, to be honest.”

Mr. Feltsman raised an eyebrow. “Worth a shot. At worst not much worse than Stadler. We need a Huldbrand to sing. You need going through opera for if you go on stage.”

Yuuri could see him draw a deep breath and then nodded. “If nobody would mind, from the intro to the  _Verschwunden aller Störung eitler Wust_ line?”

Mr. Feltsman nodded and the orchestra played up again.

“Verschwunden aller Störung eitler Wust!” Sara cheered, “Nur Liebe hebt, nur Hoffnung froh die Brust.”

“Was schau' ich dort auf dem Felsenufer?” Andreas exclaimed, stepping closer.

As in the tryout, his voice didn’t match Sara’s quite as well as August’s. In fact he was almost harsh enough to quench her out if he wasn’t careful.

Also he missed a line or two as well, but they went through the scene without too many hitches. It worked out alright and at the very least the mutual attraction was believable.

At least until the moment Undine and Berthalda were together on stage.

The scenes before, Undine and Huldbrand pledging their love and then being informally married, had gone over with only some bumps. In the scene when the couple travelled through the woods, accompanied by Pater Heilmann, Yuuri flubbed a line when Johannes Erhardt as Kühleborn showed up in disguise. Sara had stomped on his foot to bring him back and it had worked.

She had been the picture of perfect professionalism.

While the throbbing in Yuuri's foot remained, though, Sara's professional attitude towards her role and her co-singers apparently didn't fare so well.

Since there were no costume changes necessary today (what with most of the costumes still in the care of the Freudenbergs) the break between the first and the second act lasted barely long enough for drink a sip of water and breathe before the curtain rose again and Sara Crispino and Mila Babitch wandered on-stage, arm in arm, heads together without a care in the world.

The air around them was one of utter relaxation. Maybe too much relaxation. Their smiles were ones of utter bliss. (Yuuri would have never smiled like that at Viktor in public, he assumed.)

Mila Babitch threw her head back like in laughter. “Um die Wangen traut und der Blätter Weben flüstert süßen Laut.”

Sara let her hand glide down Mila's arm until their hands clasped. “Leise. Wölkchen ziehen durch das Himmelszelt. Wie sie weilen, fliehen, immer froh gesellt.” She moved away from Mila, just a bit, just to bring tension to their arms.

Mila pulled her close again and they whirled around as they sang together. “So gesellt uns zweye, Treu durch Schwestersinn, ziehn in froher Weihe durch das Leben hin.”

Yuuri was not entirely sure whether they were actually in-character as they sang or whether they simply made the words their own to shamelessly flirt when they were supposed to work. Probybly the latter.

Kühleborn showed up again, bemoaning Undine's connection to humans and Sara's Undine threatened him, declaring her protection over Berthalda with a lot more vigor than she had when it had been about any of the Huldbrands she had sung with.

Berthalda on the other hand, recoiled at the sight of the spirit and almost fainted into Undine's arms. She did so with a passion that could have sustained several love scenes.

And when Kühleborn tried to warn her of her impending doom Sara's Undine was as snippy about it as always, laughing it away. The difference to their usual dress rehearsals was that she constantly sent wistful looks to Mila's Berthalda.

So Kühleborn left the stage and soon after him the two women. “Rauscht, ihr grünen Bäume, feiernd durch die Nacht,” they sang, almost whispering to each other, “Bald sind gold'ne Träume goldner Tag erwacht.”

It was touching, intimate and sweet – and it had Mr. Feltsman almost boiling over, Yuuri could see.

Clearly, neither Mila nor Sara did care, though, and since they went through their scenes without even a hint of a hitch – what could Mr. Feltsman do aside from looking on and seethe? They had a tight schedule today. After them the ballet wanted to do their dress rehearsal for a ballet performance called  _La Sylphide_ . Thematically fitting, Yuuri found, considering the love triangle between a fairy, a human man and his equally human bride. Amusing as well. Apparently non-German works were accepted on stage as soon as there were no foreign language words involved. One could almost think not even the better educated middle and upper classes had a grasp of any other tongue than their own.

In any case, Mr. Feltsman did not wish to stretch out their dress rehearsal and collide with Madam Barnosk and thus he kept his mouth shut about the antics his two leading ladies had on stage.

And so he did not say anything when Undine had her big aria, describing the changes she had gone through after falling in love – the aria was heartfelt, wistful and melancholic and at the same time jubilant; the girl was in love and would have gladly given up even more than her nature as a water spirit for this.

Both Andreas and Mila came on stage in the middle of the aria, from different sides.

Sara was supposed to turn to Huldbrand and go to him, but this time apparently Undine preferred female company. She went to Mila, took her hand and smiled at her before both women apparently remembered that the man they were both supposed to be in love with was present too and went to him.

Mr. Feltsman at this point just buried his face in his hands.

The following scenes gave him a lot more to weep about. The entrance of the Duke and Duchess, Berthaldas foster parents, accompanied by a chorus of noblemen and noblewomen, was a mess with Plisetsky coming too late on stage and when he sang, “Seht, Herrn! Die holde Wirtin tritt von Neuem leuchtend in's Gemach,” Yuuri could count the notes he actually hit on one hand.

Mr. Feltsman yelled.

The scene started again.

The chorus celebrated.

And Plisetsky, pale as a sheet, sang again. “Seht, Herrn! Die holde Wirtin tritt von Neuem leuchtend in's Gemach.”

This time it was better. The Duke and Duchess had Undine sing a little song and she did, all the while again looking at Berthalda when a more romantic line came up.

Apparently Mr. Feltsman had given up by now.

Yuuri just saw his shoulders rise and fall and not much more.

The scenes played out. Berthalda was revealed to be a foster child to her parents, like Undine was. Mila and Sara played up the kinship the girls might feel upon this and the rehearsal continued in exactly this vein.

Undine revealed Berthalda to be the biological daughter of the fisherman and his wife. Mila sang Berthalda's disbelief and dismay, but strangely enough the way she played it it felt almost like regret. She and Undine were sisters in a sense that went beyond chosen and deliberate sisterhood and thus would taint any romance blossoming between them with the suspicion of incest.

(Mr. Feltsman undoubtedly had noticed this as well but the only thing he did was bury his face in his hands again.)

Berthalda and Huldbrand had their duet.

Mila's and Andreas' voices were a perfect match. In any future production that called for a soprano and a baritone as the romantic leads Yuuri was pretty sure they would be cast at once. However, as heartfelt – if quivering and insecure – his declarations of protection and renewed affection to Berthalda were, the lady in question seemed distant from her knight, both in emotion and physically. The scene would have called for them standing close, maybe even arm in arm, but when the stagehands worked the props, moving artificial waves closer to them, Andreas might have stretched out his arm to offer comfort to Berthalda, but Mila simply took his hand and that was it. Instead she looked over to Sara, who stood next to them. In itself the scene was heartbreaking already, Undine watching on as adultery was planned by her beloved husband and a woman she considered a dear friend and her sister. Played out like Berthalda actually wanted Undine to protect her and was resentful for her not doing so made it even more painful.

When a water spirit stole Berthalda's necklace – a gift she once had received from Huldbrand – her cries of dismay sounded rather empty, despite Mila hitting all the notes. Not to mention she sang the line, “Um meinen lieben Schmuck betrogen, ich armes Kind!” not exactly lackluster, but with another resentful stare towards Undine.

Really, the whole scene played out like a lovers' spat between Berthalda and Undine with Huldbrand being nothing more than an accessory.

And when Undine finally had to leave, being claimed back by her people due to Huldbrand pretty much disclaiming her, Berthalda as played by Mila today grew ever more wistful and maybe even distant, as if longing for the company of the love she had herself driven away.

And finally, finally the last scene came.

Undine arrived to come and bring death to her unfaithful husband she supposedly still loved.

It was at this point that everything kind of broke down as it had threatened to for the whole rehearsal.

It started with the duet between Berthalda and Huldbrand, where they professed their mutual love. Mila, singing simultaneously with Andreas, missed her notes pretty often and in addition used a term that referred to a female lover rather than a male one when declaring her love. She apparently did notice herself and missed a line after that, face growing as red as her hair.

Yuuri himself in his last scene as Pater Heilmann found himself awfully weak. Oh, that called for him wearing the blasted corset for the next dress rehearsal. Damn it.

In the end, Undine came to kill her beloved with a kiss.

In the build up the chorus missed their lines more than once. Even more often they were almost disgustingly off-key.

Undine had her eyes only on Berthalda.

Berthalda wept for ostensibly Huldbrand, but with what had gone down so far Yuuri had a hard time believing that.

The chorus croaked out their final lines.

And then it was over, at last.

They didn't even have enough time to cool down and mope about how awful they had performed today before Madam Barnosk and her dancers stepped up, shooing them away.

“Urgh,” Johannes sighed as they walked off and then simply sat down in the corridor. “Now that was awful.”

“Hear, hear.” Alexander sighed. “That's what you get for springing such a surprise onto us. I mean, it's not like we like being shaken up like that.”

Mr. Feltsman passed by them and shot them a dark look.

They all fell silent. Yuuri lowered his gaze a bit. They had been really awful today. If Mr. Feltsman decided to shout at them they definitely deserved it today.

But instead Mr. Feltsman just sighed. “Be better tomorrow. Was awful.”

Oh. Well, alright then.

Johannes Erhardt dug through his pocket and procured an intricate, flower-shaped flask with a rosebud for a stopper. “There, children. We've earned it after today. And need it from the looks of you.” He had it go around.

Mila Babitch took a swig without batting an eyelash.

Sara Crispino did likewise.

Yuri Plisetsky followed suit and likewise did not even flinch. “Whew,” he sighed. “You're right. We need that.”

Johannes Erhardt grinned.

Andreas took a hearty swig from the bottle and the very next moment coughed, quickly handing the bottle to Thomas. “Urgh... urgh, help, what's with that stuff?”

“Clears the head, thaws you when you're about to freeze up and is made after my mother's recipe.” Johannes Erhardt grinned.

The bottle reached Yuuri who took a whiff and then handed it over to another chorus singer. “No thanks, I'll have a bit when I’m actually gonna need it. Which may or may not the day after tomorrow, considering my track record.”

“Suit yourself then.”

The bottle had made its round and Johannes Erhardt pocketed it again. “Well. We know how it can go if we are in bad shape. Let's be in better shape tomorrow. And in even better when we are performing.”

Mila let it a shaky laugh. “Yes, let's... let's do that, yes? And then let's just pray that a fairy tale has better success with the audience than some bloodsucking monster.”

Sara squeezed her shoulder. “We will be alright. You will see.  _Undine_ is a well-loved piece. We will have a full house, you will be a wonderful Berthalda – you were today, in fact – and it will be alright.”

Again, Mila laughed nervously.

She was probably the one with the most at stake, it occurred to Yuuri. This was only her third big solo role. Her first one as Gretchen in the  _Wildschütz_ had been a smashing success. The  _Vampyr_ had been a disaster. If  _Undine_ failed as well this might spell the end of her career before it had even really started. No matter how much praise her individual performance had garnered, in the end the only thing that mattered was whether a show was successful on all fronts (mainly financially and critically, though). Veterans like Sara Crispino, Yuri Plisetsky and Johannes Erhardt were well-loved and well-established enough that they could stomach two failures in a row (especially when – again – their performances had been praised). Yuuri himself on the other hand had his first solo here. If he was not abysmal, he might be let off easy and get another chance to save his career.

Mila really stood the most to loose. He didn't envy her.

He sighed. “Well, it  _was_ our final dress rehearsal. These are supposed to go horribly wrong, right?”

“I suppose.” Mila made a face. “But the final dress rehearsals for the _Wildschütz_ and for the _Vampyr_ did go so well...”

“Then I would say it's about time we return to our proud and time-honoured tradition,” Andreas declared.

Mila gave him a grateful smile that had his face go red almost instantly.

Yuuri got up. “Alright, see you then.”

His lesson with Viktor was waiting after all and considering how this rehearsal had gone he could use it.

 

As he got down to Viktor's cave, however, it turned out that Viktor had quite different plans.

“No lessons today,” he declared. “You get yourself home and rest today and tomorrow.”

He once again was wearing his beloved pirate trousers and Yuuri wondered what it would take for him to finally give up on them and wear something that looked less ridiculous and made him look even better than he already did.

“What?”

“You heard me.” Viktor danced across the room towards him and pulled him close for a kiss. “No rehearsal and no lessons before opening night.”

“But we wouldn't have a lesson day tomorrow anyways.”

Viktor wagged his finger. “That does not negate the fact that you need as much rest as you can get. And are you not supposed to meet up with your sponsor today?”

“Well, yes,” Yuuri sighed, “Visit to an art gallery.”

“That sounds lovely,” Viktor said, “and very relaxing as well.” He pressed another kiss on Yuuri's lips. “Get something to eat before you meet him, yes?”

Yuuri sighed and grabbed Viktor's collar, holding his head close to his face. “I almost get the feeling you are trying to get rid of me. Why, is this my punishment for that godawful dress rehearsal today?” Maybe, just maybe he deliberately added a somewhat whiney tone to his voice. Just maybe.

Viktor lifted his arms and rested them on Yuuri's waist. “Yes, very, very much so.” The sarcasm dripped all the way through his accent. “With that awful singing today you are not worthy of my presence. I would only grant it to you if you begged for it on your knees.”

Yuuri found himself seriously contemplating this.

“No, not really.” Viktor pulled him into another kiss. “Promise me you have something to eat. Afterwards a nice, relaxing afternoon and then don't stay up too late. And that you have some rest tomorrow and that you try not to loose your head, yes?”

He sighed. “Fine. I promise. But only if you see me off to the stage,” he then declared. His cheeks grew warm. “Maybe I'm silly, but it calms me.”

Viktor smiled and nuzzled his cheek. “I would never miss seeing you off. Now out with you, yes?” He released him and gently pushed him towards the corridor.

Yuuri sighed. Well then, better he got something to eat.

 

The Royal Art Gallery Dresden was located in what Phichit claimed had once been a stable building. Not that Yuuri could tell; the building smelled decidedly un-stable-like. In fact, it smelled mostly of warm, polished wood, cool stone and the occasional dab of lavender oil to keep bugs away.

It was a relaxing environment, to be sure.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” he murmured as they paused in front of a depiction of Saint Sebastian. Decidedly not a calm picture, but still. “I think after today I needed something like that.”

Phichit chuckled. “I suppose so. You were all pretty high-strung today.”

“Well, yes, I suppose that's normal when you are informed that the dress rehearsal you are about to go through is the last one before the big, grand, all-important Opening Night.” Yuuri laughed softly and focused on Saint Sebastian's face. The man – or rather youth – was tied to a post, naked, apart from a loincloth and he had several arrows sticking in his body.

“Oh dear, really?”

Yuuri nodded. “The  _Vampyr_ got the boot. Mr. Feltsman told some of us yesterday, but only because we hung around instead of being good little singers and going home. The rest heard it today. And you have seen what happened.”

“Yes. Poor Mr. Stadler. I hope he is alright?”

“I think so.” Yuuri cocked his head. “You know, it's funny how bored poor Saint Sebastian looks here. The Roman soldiers clearly should have put more effort into the whole shooting-him-with-arrows thing.”

Phichit looked up to the painting. “Indeed. I can hear him saying  _Oh really, that's all you've got and I cleared my whole day for this?_ ” He actually put a slight lisp in his voice.

Yuuri snorted softly and put his hand over his mouth to muffle the sound.

“Really, I expected the Roman Emperor to put better soldiers to the task of killing Christians, I think I need to issue a complaint,” Phichit continued, still lisping.

“Stop.” Yuuri giggled. “We can't laugh, we're in a museum!”

Phichit chuckled. “Do the Germans have a law for that as well?”

“They have a law for almost everything,” Yuuri managed to get out in between giggles, damn, he had to stop, why couldn't he stop, damn, “I'm sure they have one for that as well...”

People were staring.

Yuuri took a deep breath and managed to control himself for a moment.

Then he and Phichit looked at each other and once again laughter bubbled up in him.

They walked away from the painting to one of the high, wide windows.

Still people were looking. Raising eyebrows, even.

Yuuri took a deep breath. “Oh dear. Oh dear...”

“One of the joys of life,” Phichit declared. “Making fun of high and serious art. Miss Babitch and Miss Crispino will surely agree.”

Finally the laughter in Yuuri's throat ebbed away and he could dare to breathe again. “Definitely. You have seen them today. I wonder if we ever will see them together on stage and take their roles completely seriously.”

“Speaking about that...” Phichit lowered his voice again, since people were still looking at them, although by now they had ceased their laughing; it was probably simply because they were two foreigners who didn't know how to behave properly in an elevated, elegant place like this.

“Neither of them are married, right?” He had a certain tone to his voice, a minimal pause before the word _married_ that gave Yuuri a pretty clear idea of his actual question.

He shook his head. “No, they are not.” And then, to make clear that he had understood the question and was answering it properly, he added, “perfectly happily unmarried together.”

Phichit smiled and nodded in something like contemplation. “That's nice for them.”

“It is. Although I think Mr. Feltsman would prefer them to be unmarried off-stage.”

Now Phichit chuckled. “I think the poor man needs a raise.”

“You are not alone in that thinking.” Yuuri sighed. “I think he's as nervous about the _Undine_ as any of us.”

“I can only imagine. I must be quite a hassle to get it on stage so much earlier than originally planned. Although it _is_ my luck. I get to hear you sing in your first solo after all.” Phichit smiled as they finally left Saint Sebastian to be hole-y and bored alone again and wandered off to a triptych that had probably once hung in a church and showed as its centrepiece the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus.

Yuuri made a small cross.

Phichit cocked his head and he smiled sheepishly. “Catholicism conditions you to make crosses at anything that looks like it might have been part of a place of worship once. One cross made takes away a few hours in purgatory, I bet.”

Phichit chuckled. “How are you feeling anyways?”

“In all honesty?” Yuuri sighed. “I am glad you took me here. It is is relaxing and...” He shrugged. “I kind of need relaxing right now. I am pretty nervous.”

“It is your first proper role, right? It is normal to be nervous, I suppose.”

“Yes, but all things considered I don't have any reason to be.” Yuuri laughed sheepishly. “After all, it's not like I'm alone on stage, right? And it's not even the lead role. I shouldn't be so nervous. I even bet nobody will remember me, no matter how good or how bad I will perform.”

“Well, if it helps you calm down I will not discourage such notions.” Phichit placed a hand on Yuuri's arm. “But let me tell you nonetheless that I for my part am looking very much forward to your first lead solo that will undoubtedly follow in due time.” He smiled, a bit wistfully maybe. “If only you displayed a little more confidence in yourself and your own abilities.”

Yuuri forced the corners of his mouth upwards. “Well, I can try. Would that be enough?”

“It's a start,” Phichit conceded. And then he took Yuuri's arm again and led him further through the gallery. “Over there are another few Italian artworks. I am pretty sure they would enjoy being appreciated by someone from home.”

 

And two days later Yuuri was fumbling and struggling to get dressed and get dressed in time on top of it.

With a soft  _snap_ the planchet closed and Yuuri breathed out, grabbed the lacings of the corset and slung them over the door handle, looking over his shoulder into the mirror. God, he hated this thing, he hated the cords and the fibbling with it and...

His fingers lost the cross that he was supposed to pull and he hissed in frustration, in the same moment as there was a knock at the door.

“Yes?” Quickly he removed the lacing from the handle as the door opened and Mila Babitch's flaming head peeked around the door.

“Ah, thought so.” She stepped in, wrapped in a dark green dressing gown and looked at him, grinning. “Need help?”

He was a man, standing in his longjohns, an undershirt and a corset in the middle of his dressing room, and it was one of the most embarrassing moments of his life. Well, then again, she had seen him like this before. It eased the shame a little as he nodded. “Yes. Please.”

“Thought so.” Mila laughed and came in, leaving the door leaned open, lest anyone suspected illicit things going on between the two up and rising young soloists. “You know, since you will be wearing this a lot on stage I think you should learn how to do it yourself.”

“I'm trying! I mean look at that!” He turned his back to her, so she could see the mess he had made of the lacings. Again. “And before you ask, I did it the exact same way you did last time.”

Mila clucked her tongue and he felt her hand on his back as she sorted out the nests he had made. “You know what, you gonna meet me and Sara on Sunday. You get a lacing lesson, understood?”

“Seriously?”

“Is Sara the most lovely and talented and rightfully famous soprano in all the German countries?” Mila retorted, “Am I the most dashing, dazzling young ingenue ever, deserving of a place at her side? Are you a great singer when you're not busy getting nervous?”

“I might argue about that last point,” Yuuri commented but nodded in defeat. “Please tell me that a career as a solo singer doesn't make you automatically bossy like that.”

“Nah, I was born that way. Got me places. Hold still.”

Yuuri felt her work, pulling the strings just below his shoulders and then working her way downwards.

He gasped.

“Too tight?” Mila asked, pausing in her work.

“Uh. No.” Yuuri took a few breaths. “No, no I am fine.”

“Good, because I am not good at loosening these laces, just so you know.” She tightened again and then Yuuri felt a pull in the middle section of his upper body. “So better yell in time when it's too tight.”

“Uh-huh.” Yuuri nodded.

“And now hold still.” Mila pulled again and Yuuri gasped as tightness closed in on him, seemingly concentrating his body down from any excess it might had held.

It felt actually good.

“I'll leave it at that,” Mila declared while probably tying the lacing. “You're not used to this yet and you still need to sing.”

“Isn't this supposed to _help_ me with that?” Yuuri asked. “You make it sound like it might not.”

“If you're not used to it and lace it too tight, you'll faint. When it's done right you stand upright and focus more on your breathing.” She gave his back a small pat. “All done. I'll get into costume now.”

“Good idea. Thank you.”

Mila grinned. “You owe me and Sara a good bottle of champagne for the lacing lesson.” With that she was out the door, whether to actually get dressed or to drop by at Sara's dressing room, Yuuri was no one to tell neither to judge.

He looked at himself in the mirror once the door was closed.

Well, his waist was significantly smaller. Not extremely much smaller, but noticeably so and the curve from his chest to his waist to his hips was – nice. Yes, nice. So that was why women looked so good even when their arms and faces spoke of several dozen pounds too much. How good that Yuuri had figured out that mystery.

But still, it pinched in his sides and everywhere else as well and the compression and the restriction, while now certainly rather interesting in a good way would very soon be a bother, he just knew it.

And why was he to force himself into this bloody thing anyways?!

“Language, love.”

He didn't even flinch at Viktor's voice, only blinked at him as he came out of the shadow while Yuuri quickly locked the door. “I didn't notice I was speaking out.”

“Not terribly loud, but still.” Viktor smiled, almost indulgently. “I am just here to wish you well. I'll be gone by the moment.” He came closer, reaching out and placing a hand on Yuuri's waist.

Warmth seeped through the thick linen an Yuuri leaned into the touch and into Viktor, meeting him for a kiss.

“Nervous?” Viktor asked, brushing Yuuri's hair aside.

“Not totally. Not yet. Just a bit.” Yuuri let out a deep breath. “For now. Let’s hope I remain that way.”

“It's okay to be nervous. If you aren't you won't pay attention to what might go wrong and then _this_ will go wrong.”

“Yeah, that's what disastrous dress rehearsals are for,” Yuuri chuckled. “According to that logic we will be right on point tonight. I hope.”

Viktor kissed his cheek, nuzzling him in the process. It tickled and sent the most wonderful shiver down Yuuri’s spine. “Just focus on what went well for you and why it went well and work with that, I guess. That helped me a lot. And you were not half as bad in the dress rehearsal than you think you were. But then again, you do tend to get very nervous very quickly.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Yuuri sighed.

Their lips met again, Viktor’s fingers brushed Yuuri’s cheeks and then held his face, his body pushing Yuuri’s closer to the wall until his back met the cold, cold, very cold mirror and he opened his eyes again.

Viktor looked at him like a drunkard might look at a tankard of wine, eye wide and dark, face flushed and lips parted and glistening so that Yuuri wanted to kiss them over and over and over again.

His long, sinuous fingers moved over the exposed skin of Yuuri’s throat and neck, over the linen covering his shoulders and then, then over the cage that held him together.

“I must give thanks to Miss Babitch,” Viktor whispered between two kisses that had Yuuri breathless and begging for more kisses and for less breath to beg, “Wonderful lacing she did here.” His hands could entirely encircle Yuuri’s waist, probably due to a combination of him being of such slight frame and Viktor possessing such obscenely, wonderfully long fingers. Maybe the tight lacing did a part as well.

“I’ll tell her after the performance.” Yuuri pulled Viktor closer to him and then he was pressed against his dressing table and hitched up so he could sit on it, Viktor’s arms encircling him, fingers moving over his legs, his back, his sides. Even through the thick layers of the corset he could feel the heat of his hands, spreading from there over his skin.

The corset before had not done too much to take Yuuri’s breath away. Viktor, however, sure did and Yuuri wanted nothing more than getting out of the damn thing and feel him closer and directly on him and at the same time the constraints on him made him even more aware of how Viktor’s fingers covered him and tried to dig into his skin and hell. Yuuri’s head went blank for a moment.

“You are so lovely like this,” Viktor breathed the crook of his neck and it made him laugh.

“Just like this?”

“You’re always lovely, always.” Viktor’s hand moved down Yuuri’s stomach - it lurched and for once it was not a case of horrible nerves and more of excitement. “But like this - why haven’t I laced you up sooner?”

“No idea,” Yuuri chuckled, “Maybe because there was a performance coming up and I was focusing on that?”

“Point taken.” Viktor pulled him close. “You come down afterwards?” There was the unmistakable press of an erection against Yuuri's leg and he chuckled. “I have Plisetsky to keep me from hitting the champagne too much.”

“I do hope so.” He ran a hand through Yuuri’s hair. “I’ll listen and then go back downstairs.”

“I hopefully won’t have to stay too long.” Yuuri leaned into the touch. “Thank you.”

“Always, love. I think you should dress now and for the sake of you being out on time without me present.” Viktor pressed another kiss on his brow. “Have fun and work hard.” And then he was gone.

Yuuri was just about finishing his stage make-up when he heard an impatient knock at his door. “Katsuki! Hurry, we got to be ready before Yakov gives his speech!”

“Just a moment!” Quickly he took a last sip of water before he walked to the door and unlocked it.

Plisetsky, frowning as always, crossed his arms. “Urgh, took you forever!” Then he looked up and down on him. “Wipe that look off your face or your solo debut will be as the sultriest priest to ever wed a couple on stage!”

Yuuri chuckled. “Can't have that now, can we?”

“I can almost picture the headlines,” Plisetsky grumbled. “ _New soloist proves that Asian people are aiming to seduce German women even when working_.”

“Any woman easily seduced by me has too low standards to be of any interest for anyone,” Yuuri shrugged.

“I’m gonna tell Viktor.”

“He's not a woman, he doesn't count into that argument.”

They headed backstage where the other singers were already gathering and Mr. Feltsman was already pacing up and down like an angry old cat.

“There you are!” he called, as Yuuri and Plisetsky arrived. “Late you are!”

“Sorry,” Yuuri mumbled as he shuffled to his place.

The darkness behind the stage was almost suffocating.

Around him he heard some people exchange a last joke and good-luck-wish.

Mr. Feltsman looked around. “Dress rehearsal was a mess,” he declared. “So this will be good. Better be good. Or I have your hides and make coat of them for big, Russian bears to wear in summer.”

There was a ripple of nervous laughter running through them.

Yuuri distantly felt himself laugh along.

Damn. He grabbed his arm and then pinched himself. A sharp, needle fine jolt of pain rushed through him and cleared his head a little.

The shuffle around him enveloped him like swaths of linen, deafening any sensation unless he continued to pinch himself in the arm.

Somewhere in a corner Sara was fidgeting with her wig.

Mila finally took her hands and held them and Yuuri could see them smile at each other in a way that reminded Yuuri of the smile Viktor had given him before he had left. The thought was calming and he lifted his hands to his waist where it was the smallest.

Another focus point. He was here. He could feel his body and feel it rather intensely too. He was here. He was here.

He would be alright.

The curtain rose and from his spot in the wings Yuuri could see how the stage illuminated as the overture swelled.

August and Thomas Weber appeared.

“Ach Undine, holde Kleine, kehre doch zurück ins Haus,” they called and begged and pleaded.

Yuuri stood there, waiting for the scenes to pass by.

The singing soon was nothing more than a soft rush in his ears. The movement on the stage, the lights and the colours threatened to become only one single, singular blur.

Breathe. He had to breathe. He had to breathe.

He pinched himself in the arm once again as Sara and August rushed to their positions for the next scene while the stage darkened.

“Yuuri, come!” Sara waved him.

Oh. Yes. Damn it.

Yuuri walked to them as they kneeled down, ready to be wed.

Oh god. Oh god, what was his first line?

Sara looked up to him inquiringly. Gave his face away his panic? Oh no, please not.

The first notes began to play.

No, no, no, no...

He had the words.  _Euch segne der, der einzig segnen kann_ , yes, he had the words.

His mouth was dry. His voice would come out dry and brittle and thin, he knew it, he just knew it.

Sara raised an eyebrow.

Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

He reached out, she took his hand and squeezed it.

Damn it. If he missed, both she and August were screwed too, at least for the scene. No, no, that would not do.

Sara's nails dug into his skin, sending a sharp little jolt of pain up his arm.

“Euch segne der, der einzig segnen kann.”

Where did that come from? It sounded somewhat like Yuuri, but he didn't really feel like he was singing, no matter the fact that it was his voice, leaving his throat.

He listened to Undine and Huldbrand exchanging their vows.

He listened to the terror of both the young couple and Undine's parents as waterspirits, led by Kühleborn, attacked the house.

He listened as his voice had him take part in this as Heilmann and he watched the stage move around him.

And thus it went on.

He had a break.

He was back on.

And then it was over.

Yuuri watched the auditorium move up and down and felt a wave along with it, but it took him a moment to realize that this was due to him taking his bows.

He had done it. He had sung. He had sung his first solo and he had been good. The applause when he came on stage was thundering.

When Sara – accompanied by August – came on stage, the applause was, by contrast, deafening and Yuuri had to restrain himself from covering his ears.

He staggered back to his dressing room.

How did he get out of his costume, out of the corset he didn't know, even less he knew how he managed to get in his evening suit.

The daze slowly faded as he navigated through the gala hall, chipped away by bright lights and bits and pieces of conversation, right next to his ear or questions directed at him. (He didn't even know what he was replying on those, but apparently it was not too riddled with blunders since occasionally a question about the theatre life followed, which he in fact did remember his answers to. “Being a stage artist is hard work and relies heavily on trust in your co-workers,” or something along those lines.

Next to him a lady was desperately trying to talk to Johannes Erhardt about something – anything – else than his beloved wife whose many virtues he happily explained to her. “And oh, there she is!” he exclaimed, as a rather portly woman with well-coiffed, grey hair stepped around, her stern face lighting up when she saw him.

The lady was forgotten and stood there, dumbfounded as the couple greeted each other and then proceeded to forget the world around them for a bit.

Wandering trough, Yuuri nodded and bowed occasionally.

On the other end of the room he could hear Mila and Sara singing their duet again, voices thrilling and ringing together.

“So gesellt uns zweye treu durch Schwestersinn, ziehn in froher Weihe durch das Leben hin.” They were ecstatic. The opening night of _Undine_ had been a full success. Full house – what else was to be expected? It was a well-known and well-beloved piece after all and both the leading ladies were adored by the audience.

But still, the relief was palpable, visible in Mila's bright smile and in the way Sara's arm linked with hers.

“Ah, Yuuri! There you are!”

Yuuri turned around to see Phichit rush towards him.

“I've been looking for you all over the place!” He drew Yuuri into a hug. “You were great, I told you you would be!”

“I almost messed up,” Yuuri mumbled, hugging him back. “Sara got me back on track before I could, though.”

“Amazing woman,” Phichit declared and then put his hand between Yuuri's shoulder blades, gently turning him around. “Come along, I would like to introduce you to some people.”

He led him through the room towards a collection of slightly older, slightly grey examples of the typical middle class Dresden man.

“Mr. Hermann, Mr. Rossler.”

Two men – presumably the ones Phichit had addressed – turned around to them and gave Yuuri a rather obvious once-over before turning to Phichit.

“Mr. Chula, you found your singer, it seems?” One of them asked.

Phichit nodded, smiling. “Mr. Yuuri Katsuki, our Pater Heilmann for the evening. Yuuri, Mr. Albert Hermann is a business partner from Hamburg, hoping to branch out to Saxony. Mr. Rossler is his partner in crime for this, providing much of the necessary ships for continental and transatlantic trade.”

Yuuri shook hands. Both of the men seemed intent on crushing his fingers in their grip, he noticed. He managed a smile and returned the squeeze with equal force. “A pleasure. Mr. Chula mentioned some of his business partners being here tonight. I hope the performance was to your liking?”

“Oh, it was a delight. Not that one could expect anything less with Miss Babitch and Miss Crispino,” Mr. Rossler declared. “I haven't seen you on stage before, have I?”

“He had his big debut tonight,” Phichit beamed. “And was far more nervous than he had any right to.” He still had his hand between Yuuri's shoulder blades and now offered some reassuring pressure.

Oh, Yuuri would have to bring this up at some point, but here and now was not right place. Also, it was in part thanks to Phichit's touch that Yuuri could breathe easier and smile at Mr. Hermann, when he said: “It was a good performance. And this run will remain in memory, for sure with its interesting casting choices.” He smiled. “La Crispino will always look very Italian, no amount of pale powder and blonde wigs will change that, but that is part of her charm as Undine, don't you think? It had an unreal quality and someone un-changed and not made up like Mila Babitch as her counterpart was a wonderful idea. My compliments to the director.”

“Yes, they harmonize very well together,” Yuuri agreed. “And they enjoy singing together on stage – and off it as you just heard.”

“And then an Oriental as Pater Heilmann.” Mr. Hermann smiled. “A good choice. Apparently it does pay off to be experimental.” It was probably meant to be kind and praising. Yuuri decided to take it that way.

He smiled. “I do hope so. I worked very hard on the part to have Mr. Feltsman's decisions pay off.”

“Too bad my wife couldn't make it to Dresden with me,” Mr Rossler sighed. “She adores anything Oriental. I am sure she would delight in whatever tale you have to tell from the East – you are from China?”

Yuuri's knowledge of Chinese and Chinese naming convention was, generously put, rather flimsy, but it was enough for him to be somewhat offended by the notion. How on earth did his name sound Chinese? Especially to someone who, dealing in international trade, without doubt had some Chinese business associations?

“Actually, I'm Italian,” he said. “So most of my tales will feature everyday Milanese madness, but I am sure these would be very entertaining for your wife as well.”

Mr. Rossler blinked and then nodded. “Well, in any case, that was a very nice bit of singing.”

“Wasn't it?” Phichit smiled so brightly that Yuuri was waiting for his teeth to shoot lightning bolts. “I am so lucky to have heard his debut after all.”

“Ah yes, you _were_ sour about leaving for London before _Undine_ opened,” Mr. Hermann nodded, “You _are_ lucky, aren't you.”

“Indeed. And right now I am banking all my luck on wrapping up business in London as fast and well as I can so I can be back here again. By the way, consider yourself invited to my coming-home-to-Dresden party. I do plan on several crayfish dishes and some musical entertainment, right, Yuuri?”

So, he was to sing at a private amusement party now? Phichit seemed to consider himself his sponsor already.

Yuuri could not say that he minded. He smiled. “You know I'd love to.”

Phichit beamed at him. “Wonderful! Now let's just hope the entertainment planned is not too... nice?”

Yuuri would have very much liked to hug him for this. Instead he smiled. “Yes, let's hope so.” And apparently with this he had snatched a new engagement. Oh dear.

“Zees sounds djust burfeggt!”

A stranger.

Phichit raised an eyebrow at Yuuri and then to Mr. Rossler and Mr. Hermann as they all turned to the young man who had joined them and who had replaced his introduction with an outrageous and very fake French accent.

The artifice did nothing to ease Yuuri's immediate stirrings of distaste for most things French.

He forced his lips into a thin smile as he watched the stranger chatting up Phichit. Dark green velvet, one or two pieces of jewellery (how gaudy, Yuuri would not have been caught dead wearing a golden necklace. But each to their own, he supposed and with French fashion this was not the worst thing one could expect.) Dark hair, merry, blue eyes and a square face, not excessively handsome but he was carrying himself with confidence and self-assurance, that probably made him very attractive, but right now Yuuri found him more annoying than anything else.

“A 'ouse bartee, 'ow wonderfool! And weez a proweeseonel zinger for enterteenment, mon dieu!”

Urgh. The fake accent – Yuuri was loathe to admit it, but he admitted it nonetheless – was even worse than the real thing.

“It would be brilliant, right, a new rising star of the Dresden Opera scene”, the man exclaimed, “potentially with one of the already shining stars of the scene at his side and as his support?”

Oh brilliant, just brilliant, no pressure then.

“Yuuri, I believe you haven’t met yet.” Phichit smiled again an there was nary a hint of strain on his face. Yuui had to admire it. “Mr. Jean-Jaques Ilroi.” He did not state a profession the man might follow. From the dissipated air he had around himself, there probably was none.

He smiled broadly. “I ‘ave zee most wondergfool idea. A bartee at my ‘ouse, Meeztar Katsuki can sing. ‘e will ‘ave piano music. Meezter Katsuji, you will love my meestress, I assure you!”

“I will be very happy to meet her,” Yuuri sighed, praying that the lie wasn’t too obvious, “But I am not sure why you are so certain of my feelings for your mistress.”

“Ah,” Jean-Jaques Ilroi, winked and smiled at him. “Ah well, I zee zere La Crispino!” And with that, off he flitted like a big, shiny butterfly.

Yuuri managed to keep up his smile until Yuri Plisetsky spotted him and gave him a reason to excuse himself.

Plisetsky raised an eyebrow. “You met Ilroi then?”

“He didn't leave me much choice, seriously.” Yuuri sighed. “He's not really French, is he? That accent of his – no way that this is real.”

“Oh, it is not.” Plisetsky chuckled. “He slips pretty often into Saxonian dialect when he's drunk. Not that there's much difference between words chewed in the right cheek and words chewed in the left cheek, but well. He is French, though. His parents, his staff, everything about him, except his birthplace and he tries to gloss over that fact. So? When will you sing at one of his parties?”

“No idea.” Yuuri turned around and grabbed two glasses of champagne, pressing one into Plisetsy's hand.

The boy raised an eyebrow at him.

Yuuri shrugged. “I have no intention on getting drunk. Would be a waste of a good evening and good champagne.” He took a sip as they wandered to a slightly less noisy spot that was quickly occupied by a few other singers as well. “But I do need something to get over the prospect of being forced into polite social interaction with a bunch of strangers at a stranger's house who... how can I put it?”

“Who is Jean-Jaques Ilroi?” Plisetsky asked with a sardonic smile. “Yes, I can relate to that.”

Yuuri chuckled and acknowledged Andreas' and Thomas' presence with a nod.

“He's French, right?” Thomas asked. “I mean, he sounds French.” His speech was slightly slurred already, but his eyes were clear.

“At least he's trying to,” Plisetsky countered, “and fails terribly.”

“But he _is_ actually French.”

Plisetsky shrugged.

“What's he doing _here_ then? He's not on business, right? And he's actually living here, right?”

“Born and raised here,” Plisetsky confirmed. “But his parents made very sure he's actually French in any aspect that matters.”

“Pity,” Andreas sighed, who was not so much as tipsy and more on the way to be pretty drunk.

Johannes nodded sagely. “Very pity.” Now here was someone who wasn't on the way to being drunk anymore but very much at the finishing line. Yuuri suspected that the absence of Mrs. Awesfeld had something to do with it. She had been here for the performance and Yuuri had spotted her earlier this evening, but she had retired soon after.

“But...” Thomas made a vague gesture. “Shouldn't he be – you know – in France? Where the other French people live?”

“I think I should pack my things and see that I go back to Russia then,” Plisetsky commented.

“You know what I mean,” Thomas sighed. “Question still stands why is he here?”

“He says his parents are illegitimate descendants of the High Royal Houses of Bourbon and Valois.” Plisetsky sneered. “So _obviously_ they had to flee when the people were finally fed up with the way things were in France and ended up here and had to take on new names to escape potential attempts on their lives. And _obviously_ for someone _Ilroi_ was the perfect choice. Because calling yourself the king is not suspicious at all. Won't draw any attention.”

“Has he any proof for his claims?” Yuuri asked, “or is it just what he's saying?”

“It's his word,” Plisetsky shrugged. “Says that the families of both his parents incorporate the Fleur-de-Lis in their crests in a certain way that marks them as illegitimate offshoots and he loves showing them off but he never explains how and why.”

“Ah.” Yuuri nodded. “I see.” Then a thought popped up in his head and he grinned. “Well, in that case, you all may bow to me now – no, better, on your knees.”

Johannes stared.

Andreas tipped his finger against his temple.

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Are you alright, Yuuri?”

“No more champagne for you,” Plisetsky declared. “None. Never again.”

“No, really. Didn't you know?” He grinned at them. “Truth is, I am the son of the Emperor of China. I know, I should have told you sooner so you could pay me the proper respects, but truth is, I wasn't supposed to. Security and all.”

Plisetsky looked around, found a valet carrying glasses of champagne and quickly grabbed two. One he downed. One he pressed into Yuuri's hand. “I changed my mind. You're not drunk enough to come up with such a stupid idea, we need to rectify that.”

If he insisted on that, Yuuri decided, he would have to explain to Viktor. Now that was an amusing thought. Yuuri took a sip. “But really, can you prove I am  _not_ a son of the Emperor of China, tragically abducted and whisked off to the far, foreign West?”

Andreas and Thomas chuckled.

Plisetsky snorted. “Nice try. Little flaw in it, though.”

“Oh, which one?”

Plisetsky smirked. “You're not Chinese, right? You're Japanese.”

“Yes.” Yuuri shrugged. “I am not sure most people here could tell the difference or care enough to.”

Plisetsky's smirk grew into a grin. “Oh, finally, you're beginning to understand how rich people's minds work, congratulations!”

Yuuri gave him a mocking bow. “I always strife to learn, even when the subject matter is at once meagre, unsatisfying and bloated.”

He noticed that Thomas, Andreas and Johannes watched them with amusement.

“Two things I would have never thought to say a few months ago,” Andreas finally sighed, leaning against the wall for support. “Y'know, Yuuri was so silent and shy at first. And meek. Almost like a pretty girl. And really keen on not pissing anyone off even the slightest.”

“Yep,” Thomas agreed. “Spent his first few days staring at everyone like a scared rabbit.”

Yuuri rolled his eyes. “Thank you very much for the charming assessment, I will do my best to live up to your expectation.”

“See, see – would have never thought you could be so … so...”

“Not scared-rabbit-y?” Plisetsky suggested.

Andreas pondered it as much as he could in his champagne-befuddled state.

“Vicious,” Johannes blurted out. “Vicious 's it.”

“All those years of being unassuming and trying to get by unnoticed,” Yuuri sighed, “all in vain. I was deemed vicious.”

“Worse things to be when you're in the performing arts,” Thomas consoled him.

“And also,” Andreas continued, swaying a bit, “Plisetsky. Yuri Plisetsky.”

The mentioned raised an eyebrow. “I am very sure you spoke my name quite often.”

“Wouldn't have thought you'd be so not-bitchy.” Andreas grinned. “Or to be actually enjoyable company.”

Yuuri noticed how Plisetsky's eyes actually widened a little.

“'s true,” Johannes agreed. “You're actually kinda funny. When you're trying to stab someone else than us with your glares.”

Thomas looked at the two of them, then at Plisetsky and finally at Yuuri.

Then he sighed and grabbed Johannes and Andreas. “You know what, I think we all can do with some more champagne, right?”

Gently he led them away.

Plisetsky's gaze followed them.

“Well...” Yuuri sighed. “They certainly have fun.”

“Yes,” Plisetsky said, “Certainly.” He chewed on his lip, a surprisingly childish gesture that Yuuri found in an odd way touching.

“Are you quite alright?” he finally asked and Plisetsky nodded in haste. “Yes, yes. I am fine. You should go, I think, I bet Viktor is waiting eagerly for you and if you keep him waiting he will mope and I will hear about it and will do so for ages.”

“God forbid. Thank you.” Yuuri waved and turned around to head out, but to his surprise Plisetsky commenced to follow him.

The boy still looked lost in thought and even somewhat shocked.

Yuuri waited until they both were in the corridor behind the gallery where only a few stagehands passed by them.

Then he stopped until Plisetsky was next to him again. “What is it?”

Plisetsky bit his lip again and then, after looking around and finding nobody near them, he asked, “Am I bitchy?”

For a moment Yuuri was wondering whether he had had more champagne than he had thought. “What?”

Plisetsky's face turned a deep red. “What they said. You friends. They called me, what was the phrase –  _surprisingly un-bitchy_ . So apparently I give off the impression of being bitchy.”

“Uh, don't take it too hard, they were pretty drunk.”

“You should be the first to agree with me on _In vino veritas._ Or rather champagne.”

Yuuri laughed weakly. “Well, you got a point there.”

“So?” Plisetsky crossed his arms, face still a deep red. “Am I really that bitchy?”

“You are...” Yuuri wondered how he could put it into words that were both on point and not too harsh to the boy. “Well, you are very... straightforward. And don't mince your words. And you are... well... you can be quite brash.”

“Alright,” Plisetsky sighed. “If I was a woman, would you call me a bitch?”

“Definitely.” That was out much faster than Yuuri had wanted it to be. “Damn. Sorry.”

Plisetsky did blanch a little, even though he said, “No, don’t be.”

Yuuri took in the way the boy chewed on his lip, how his brow furrowed and how his nose crinkled. At any other time he would have considered it utterly adorable. Hell, until a while ago he would have considered it adorable with any other person than Plisetsky himself.

“Do you want to tell me that you didn’t know?” he finally asked.

“What… well… I did.” Plisetsky shrugged, a bit too quickly. “I mean, I knew people didn’t care much for me. Just as well, I don’t care much for them either.”

By now Yuuri knew the boy well enough to know very well when he was lying. He said nothing about it.

“Just… didn’t think…” Again he shrugged too quickly and by now he looked like him crying was an actual, real possibility.

Yuuri fervently resisted the urge to reach out and hug him. “You  _are_ a bitch, no use denying it,” he sighed. “And you seem to enjoy being as intimidating as your skinny little ass allows you to.” Oh. That choice of words pointed to the champagne kicking in. 

Plisetsky flushed.

“But you know, one just has to get to know you a little to find out that you are actually...” Yuuri shrugged. The champagne made it hard to think clearly. “Well, on second look you are really good company. Clever and more friendly than you like to admit yourself and really likeable. You should show that side to others more often.”

Plisetsky visibly bristled at the suggestion. His face twitched, his shoulders tensed. Then he shook his head. “Nah. People might start to think I actually _like_ talking to them.”

“You like talking to me.”

“Sure about that?”

“You're doing it now,” Yuuri pointed out, feeling incredibly clever.

Plisetsky sighed in defeat. “Yeah, with you. You are – well, you are – well, you!”

Whatever that was supposed to mean. But it was probably supposed to be a compliment. Yuuri smiled.

“Anyways, you better go, or... whatever.” Plisetsky waved at Yuuri and then turned around.

Yuuri nodded. “Alright. Thank you.” He turned around. “I better go now. What are your plans for the remainder of the night?”

Plisetsky shrugged. “Go back, probably. Have some more champagne. Try to bear those rich idiots. Then get out and go home.”

Or he would go out and somewhere else? Yuuri wanted to ask, but he didn't dare. Instead he turned his head, looking over his shoulder back to the boy.

“Or maybe leave earlier.” He shrugged again. “Might be better.” With another shrug he turned around. “We'll see. Have a nice night.” And with a wave he left.

Yuuri smiled and then himself walked off. Plisetsky was right. Viktor was waiting and Yuuri was eager to enjoy his company again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thank you all for reading again! Not much to say about this one, only - a good while ago me and my beta were discussing... corset stuff. Especially the fact that Viktor likes these bloody things extremely well when they're on Yuuri.  
> This talk had two end results, one being a slightly alternative version of a scene in this chapter.  
> Said version will be posted on September 2nd (probably around noon German time.) Why? Because I'm turning 30 and since my family is over here the next day (... joy?) I figured at least you should get something good out of me growing old. XD


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

 

The night with Viktor was wonderful, well-earned and perfect to soothe Yuuri's nerves that had begun to frazzle a bit after the excitement of the performance had finally died down.

When Yuuri came back up the next day, he was refreshed, relaxed and content – the opening night had gone perfectly fine, they had sung without a hitch, the audience had loved them.

The day passed by.

The next day they had their first reviews coming in; Johannes Erhardt and Mila Babitch both brought newspapers with them and after the solo rehearsal they sat together, reading them out loud.

Critics received the  _Undine_ with as much warmth as the audience had and most certainly much more favourably than they had  _Vampyr._ Which was not a terribly high bar, admittedly, but they all praised the production value and the absence of both a far too convoluted plot and any strange performance experiments that, to be fair, had also been absent in  _Vampyr._ But apparently some theatres in Leipzig and Berlin were occasionally serving up their materials in rather unorthodox ways. Most audiences – and critics – didn't take it too well whenever that happened and every time it did, it bled into reviews of other operas at other houses in other cities.

Augusts' performance was praised as impressive and intense – and August, as Mila read it out loud, grinned from one ear to another.

Well, the praise was deserved. Yuuri didn't like him, but he had done really well.

Sara raised an eyebrow at him and then smiled. “First good impression. Very well done.” She then turned to Mila. “Seems to be a running theme here, huh?”

“Apparently.” Mila smiled cheerfully and then went on reading. “Stadler not only could hold his own in his first big solo, he also was a fine counterpoint for both Sara Crispino's Undine and Mila Babitch's Berthalda. The latter once again had a role to shine in after the poor material she had been given in the _Vampyr.”_

“I wonder when we will ever get over that blasted thing,” Sara sighed.

“Never,” Mila answered, “never, I tell you.” Then she turned her attention back to the newspaper. “In fact, one might say that Berthalda was played as such a sweet tragedy that one could not help but feel for her as her rightful husband was snatched away from her a second time.” She shrugged. “Well, if all I have to do is sing my lines for them to feel like that, fine.”

“Don't be so mean to yourself,” Yuuri said, “that's my thing, don't take my thing from me.”

“While Sara Crispino was as brilliant as always, Mila Babitch left no room for doubt that she in time will very well prove to be able to challenge the current primadonna for her title. It remains to be seen whether Sara Crispino will consider her co-star a threat, though.”

She looked up and her gaze met Sara's. For a moment the women looked at each other and Yuuri had the suspicion they were about to forget that other people existed in this room next to them. Then they started to snort and giggle and laughter bubbled out of them until they were shaking. “Oh dear,” Mila gasped, “oh no, I am so sorry, Sara, will you ever forgive me for challenging your authority as our primadonna?”

“Never!” Sara managed to sound somewhat serious. “Never, you hear me, never, you impudent upstart! I will not have this, you hear me! You will pay for this, you insolent thing!”

Mila laughed. “Oh no, oh no, she can ruin me, my career, my dear career!”

Plisetsky rolled his eyes at them and Yuuri heard him mutter something like an annoyed, “Women.”

Mila straightened up and took a deep breath before focussing on the paper in her hand again. “Also this production of _Undine_ saw the debut of one Mr. Yuuri Katsuki-” She looked up. “Oh, look and we were worried they'd spell you wrong.”

Yuuri said nothing about how she herself had mispronounced his last name, what with the overly long a and the spat-out u.

“\- one Mr. Yuuri Katsuki in the role of Pater Heilmann. While one might have wondered beforehand what Mr. Feltsman might have been thinking to cast an unknown foreigner for such a prominent role, not to mention a highly significant one, Mr. Katsuki gave proof that he earned his debut with hard work, skill and talent. His performance was a solid one, confirming Mr. Feltsman's casting choices once more as well-thought despite seeming daring, if not to say harebrained on first sight.”

“They could also just say, ’Oh he didn't suck as much as we expected’”, Yuuri shrugged. “Would have saved them ink.”

“They're paid by word count, as far as I know,” Johannes Erhardt said. “Forgive them their redundancy when it brings butter on their table.”

“As long as they forgive me for being somewhat competent in the job I am paid to do, fine.” It was still somewhat disturbing how easy it was for Yuuri to talk to them. Maybe it was like that because he had been in closer contact with Plisetsky first and anyone who came after him would be a sheer joy to deal with. And of the rest of the core group he was usually in contact with outside of rehearsal – Mila, Sara and Johannes Erhardt – nobody seemed to be possessed by any character trait more difficult than maybe Mila's chattiness, Sara's love to tease people a little and Johannes Erhardt's attempts to be a jolly grandfather to everyone. Yuuri was used to solo singers who were more of a hassle to deal with.

“Mr. Katsuki brought the necessary gravitas to the role without forgetting to add the fatherly kindness of the priest and his mourning for both Undine and Huldbrand left nobody in the audience untouched. A surprise, indeed, considering his unassuming, plain demeanor and appearance at first glance,” Mila went on.

In his corner Plisetsky snorted. He and Yuuri exchanged an amused look. When Viktor got his hands on this newspaper article, he would rant on for ages about the stupidity of people who dared calling his lover unassuming and plain.

Yuuri was pretty sure Plisetsky was already hatching an idea of how to obtain the paper and bring it down to Viktor to read and get worked up about.

“Nice touch,” Sara interrupted. “Praising your performance as surprisingly good and then questioning your appearance and your bearing.” She shot him a sardonic smile. “Welcome to my world.”

“And who would ever question your appearance?” Mila asked.

Sara made a face. “You were not here yet when I had my debut here. People almost lost it because I am a bit too dark for their tastes. Apparently they have forgotten that Italians pretty often have a tendency to tan.” She tapped her finger to her chin. “On second thought, maybe having a first name that sounds somewhat Jewish might have had something to do with it.”

“Are you Jewish, though?” August asked.

Sara lifted an eyebrow. “What?”

“I mean, if you're not Jewish then just ignore it, right?” August shrugged. “Not like it matters then and if you are Jewish, well, that's normal, you should be used to it.”

Sara managed a smile. “I think I will go with the ignoring. Thank you.” Her voice sounded like she had swallowed some shards and was now trying very hard to chew them down.

Mila, lips pressed into a fine, thin line, again returned her attention to the newspaper article. “It was a surprise to hear someone of such a small stature sing in such a grave and firm baritone, indeed. Sharp-eyed patrons of the Royal Court Theatre might also have been confused after having spotted Mr. Katsuki singing a tenor's part in the chorus in previous operas. It remains to be seen whether this refreshing flexibility will continue to be solid enough in performance to suffice for any sort of solo.”

How nice, Yuuri though. How very, very, very nice.

Mila sighed. “In any case, Mr. Katsuki is an experiment that seems to be going well-”

 

“- and we will see whether it will continue to do so and whether Mr. Katsuki will be able to hold his own on a German stage.”

Before, Yuuri had been interrupted with laughter at his reading of the suggestion that there might be a rivalry between Sara and Mila brewing. “Ha!” Thomas had declared, “ha, as if ever! The Crispino would herself craft a most beautiful crown and hand it over to Mila with the happiest smile imaginable and then they would bicker if Mila should take it or if it was more befitting of the Crispino and then laugh about it.”

They all had agreed and laughed and then not further commented on the intense friendship between the two women. It was the day after the first reviews had fluttered in, and they sat now together in their small group after chorus rehearsal and read out the articles to each other once more, much like yesterday the soloists had after their rehearsal time had been served.

It had been fun and filled with laughter, jabs and jibes at each other, at some of the soloists and – as always – at the _Vampyr_.

Now, instead of laughter, there was an uneasy silence.

“It...” Johannes cleared his throat. “It could be worse.”

“It's horsecrap, that's what it is,” Andreas argued.

Yuuri noticed a movement; it was Plisetsky, who was coming closer and finally settled down on the floor a few feet away from them. Nobody paid him any heed; any skittishness the chorus singers might have had at first when Plisetsky had shown up around them had quickly faded away when he had turned out – as Johannes had put it so eloquently – to be surprisingly un-bitchy.

“You better not listen to this shit, you hear me,” Andreas continued.

Yuuri quickly shook his head. “No, no, of course not.”

Satisfied Andreas nodded. “Good.”

“What do they actually mean with ‘when’ and ‘if’?” Alexander scoffed. “They think he's gonna run off tomorrow?”

“Probably,” Plisetsky now said, “Because of course his dissipated oriental constitution of mind and his Italian cultivation did nothing to strengthen him enough to stand on a German stage.” He gave them a sardonic smile. “Sorry to interrupt, but we're up in a bit.”

“Nah, it's fine.” Johannes, face slightly red with remaining embarrassment, got up. “Thanks.”

“They didn't say much about you,” Thomas remarked.

Plisetsky shrugged. “I had only a small role, so there was not much to talk about. I am not totally new, so there is not much to divulge in about me being up and coming, like with Mila. And I sang my part properly, so no reason for them to spread gossip.”

“Yeah, but maybe you should eye some big parts again next time,” Thomas continued. “Unless you want to end up forgotten. Would be a pity.”

Plisetsky raised an eyebrow. “Are you actually trying to be nice to me?”

Thomas' face grew red. “Well, yes. I mean, Yuuri likes you and despite the rumours you have never scratched anyone's eyes out, so really, how bad can you be?”

There was a round of chuckling.

Thomas stretched now. “But your presence means that soloist rehearsals are about to start. I'd like to take the time to get some lunch into my belly.”

This marked the signal for general departure; apparently despite the proclamation just a few moments ago they were still slightly uncomfortable around Plisetsky. Yuuri could not blame them and potentially neither did Plisetsky.

The boy shook his head as they watched them leaving. “I will never get over the fact that you make friends so easily,” he sighed. “I mean – you. Look at you.”

“Every morning in the mirror, thanks a lot,” Yuuri sighed. “But they really should not trust my judgement. First guy I fancied turned out to be a huge idiot. Good thing I got over him pretty quickly after that.”

“Speaks for your judgement, though.” Plisetsky shrugged.

Sara and Mila came around, arm in arm and chatting as always, smiling brightly at them.

Soon after, August strolled back in, having avoided to sit with the small group Yuuri was part of. Then Johannes Erhardt. Several other faces.

And Mr. Feltsman.

They all warmed up. And they all got ready for the rehearsal.

 

The next day – as every day lately – started with chorus practise and with the absence of new musical scores for them to study. This was a surprise; some days, maybe one and a half weeks ago, Mr. Feltsman had announced that first preparations for a new opera would begin today.

But Louis Spohr's  _Faust_ was suspiciously absent today.

“Maybe the mess with the changed schedule confused him,” Thomas suggested, “Happens to the best of us.”

In any case, they sang through their parts, ghostly, unearthly, cheering and spiteful.

Yuuri enjoyed it, the quick changes, the short hisses and even though he did not sing on stage – dress rehearsal had proven position and costume switches not manageable and his performance as Heilmann suffering from it – working on the chorus pieces like that was fine too.

“I mean, we should start working on the _Faust_ ,” Andreas commented in a moment's break, “Should have, in fact, since we've already staged the _Undine_ , or does Mr. Feltsman plan for it to have a longer running time?”

Of course, Mr. Feltsman heard them.

“No chatter!”, he bellowed from his seat below. “More singing – you too, Ebert! Sing like you're paid to do so – oh, wait, I forgot!”

There was a short ripple of laughter running through them.

“Sing!”

The laughter died and the singing commenced.

As usual, there was hardly a segment Mr. Feltsman didn't find something to improve on and they sang through them again and again and again. When their allotted time was up, the familiar, heavy exhaustion of a day's hard work well done was settling in on them. Yuuri tried his best to shake it off; not now, not yet, he would have to get through the soloist rehearsal as well afterwards.

He managed, he sang his lines, faltered only once at his duet with August's Huldbrand.

“Sorry”, he mumbled after having missed his line.

August rolled his eyes at him, but said nothing. After all, he missed enough of his beats as well. So did Sara or any of the veterans of the stage.

It was a bit of a comfort to Yuuri. Messing up didn't mean he was not good enough. Thank goodness.

“From top!”

Georgi waved – saluted even – and started again.

“Halt fest, mit Seel' und Leib halt fest am strengen Wort der Treue!” Yuuri's Heilmann cautioned. It was after Huldbrand had cast Undine aside and pledged love to Berthalda – and it was still obvious to anyone that his heart was still bound to the water spirit.

Still, Huldbrand wished to stick with the choice he made, citing Undine's seeming deceptiveness. “Wer nicht von blöder Täuschung läßt, den fasst die bittere Reue.”

At least he was trying to tell himself he had cast Undine aside for her deceptiveness and to save himself pain.

To anyone else this line sounded also as if he was already regretting his relationship to Berthalda and realizing how much he was deceiving himself.

Yuuri tried to appeal to his love for Undine a bit more and to the memory of their time together, but Huldbrand remained adamant, which in some way was a good thing. At least he had finally made a decision – a stupid, heartless and thoughtless decision, but a decision nonetheless, rather than flip-flopping about whom to love and whom not and he was sticking to it.

“Was einer rät, was einer spricht, der Zukunft Saaten sprossen,” they finished the scene together, Yuuri coming closer and putting a worried, friendly, supportive hand on August's arm. His Huldbrand stood bowed, worn down with worry, insecurity and grief for the woman he had loved so much and driven away himself.

They were done with the scene.

Mr. Feltsman nodded. “Katsuki, more focus next time!”

Yuuri hurried to nod. “Yes!” Well, if his focus was the only thing he had to work on for this scene, he could live with it.

The last scene – Undine returning and claiming Huldbrand for herself again, as well as for death – involved too much of the chorus to be sung out properly. Tomorrow there was a dress rehearsal day where they would go over this again, working on small blunders they had committed on stage and trying to purge them before the next performance.

At least they were all confident of being able to do so. They all liked the _Undine_ and wanted to do well by it.

The end of their rehearsal was dominated by cheerful chatter and laughter as they stood around for a few more minutes before they all, one by one, departed for lunch, personal errants and some recuperation before some of them would show up on stage tonight for a concerto or would head out for some private engagement, a performance at a party or a banquet.

Yuuri listened to Johannes Erhardt filling Mila Babitch in on a social event they were to attend and provide with music tonight.

“Do not wear green, child, that's the colour the mistress of the house has claimed for herself already, don't do it. She notified any of the invited ladies of this, but apparently didn't think of telling you, I have it from my wife. She hates when a guest wears the same colour as she does. Takes away from her originality.”

Mila shrugged. “Well, if that's the only time she feels somewhat original, I will leave her to it. Blue is it, then?”

“Dark blue or bright blue?”

“Bright. Cerulean.” Mila smiled. “I finished putting on ribbons yesterday.”

“Wonderful, my wife's in midnight blue, you will match perfectly.”

And here Yuuri had always thought these social events were solely about showing up, singing and behaving not too badly. Apparently he had thought wrong.

“Yuuri, once you go out to these events, don't dress too colourful for the first few times. Bright jackets are very much not appropriate,” Johannes Erhardt continued into his direction.

Yuuri laughed softly. “Thanks, I will keep it in mind.”

“Katsuki!”

They all flinched ever so slightly and turned around.

Mr. Feltsman stood behind them, glaring daggers at them all. Then he nodded to Yuuri specifically. “My office,” he said, turning around. “Now!”

Yuuri, already with a sinking feeling in his stomach, noticed that Mila shot him a worried look. That did nothing to alleviate the quickly growing flutter in his throat and the gentle throb behind his eyes.

“Now!” Mr. Feltsman bellowed and Yuuri finally ushered after him.

Now he had done it. Something about him was not right. He had messed up. He had messed up once too often and now he would pay for it and pay dearly, too. Mr. Feltsman would give him the boot. Would probably also inform any other theatre and opera house he could get in contact with that Yuuri Katsuki was no good, no use, a waste of time and money, nobody should ever have to hire him.

Mr. Feltsman opened the door to his office and nodded at him to follow him in.

He was quite polite about it. Maybe, Yuuri mused, it wouldn't be that bad. Maybe he would simply be told that his role now had gone to someone else more suited for it and he was demoted back to a simple chorus singer.

His fingers were shaking and he curled his hands up into fists.

“Sit,” Mr. Feltsman said.

He sat down and his gaze flickered around. The last time he had been here he had been too nervous, his mind too frayed to pay any attention to anything. He was nervous now, but at least it wasn't the residue of a breakdown. A small improvement, but an improvement nonetheless.

“So. How you do?” Mr. Feltsman asked.

Was he actually, really, honest to God asking Yuuri how he was doing and whether he was alright? Really? Was Yuuri dreaming? Or was this a precursory estimation how a lay-off or demotion would affect his mental state?

“I...” He cleared his throat. “I am fine. I think? I know I messed up today in rehearsal once, if it was more than once please let me know.”

“Didn't mess up on stage,” Mr. Feltsman said. “You good? No nerves?”

What? Where did that come from?

Yuuri considered his answer carefully. “I am nervous. Pretty much always, yes, but it is...”

Mr. Feltsman blinked at him and Yuuri realized he had switched to Italian and that he had been talking much too fast and too thick in his Milanese dialect for Mr. Feltsman to follow him.

He cleared his throat. “Sorry. But... I am fine, mostly.”

“No breakdowns?”

“No breakdowns.” One instance aside and thankfully he had been pulled back from that.

“Good. And in...” He waved with his hand in a gesture that encompassed all of Yuuri from head to toe. “And in general?”

“I am...” Yuuri swallowed. “Fine in general. I think I am coping well enough with working on a solo role. I hope this is not a misconception.”

“You do adequately,” Mr. Feltsman said. “Can be better, but are getting better. But are pale. Why are you pale?”

“I am wondering why I am here,” Yuuri blurted out and continued, despite his urge to slap himself, “and not knowing why I am here makes me nervous and when I am nervous I probably get pale.”

Mr. Feltsman blinked at him. Then he nodded. “Not bad reason for you being here.”

Oh, yes? Well, that was comforting at least, Yuuri had to admit. At least he would keep his position here.

“There is to be private performance for king and his family and household,” Mr. Feltsman said. “In Zwinger. You been there?”

Yuuri had only ever passed by the delicate, gilt-shimmering, low building that stood only a few paces away from the theatre and that always called a fine jewel case to mind or a fine, extravagant bonbonniere.

“Is pretty. Has a small museum for public to enjoy. And is sometimes private theatre for King and his companions. He wants opera. One performance. One night.”

Yuuri suspected that if the king of Saxony wanted a private performance of  _Undine_ , Mr. Feltsman would have informed them all at once at a dress rehearsal. “Which opera does the king want to see?”

Mr. Feltsman shot him a funny look and then nodded to himself. Yuuri even thought he could see him smile. Now that was an achievement to be proud of, for sure.

“His Majesty asks for Rienzi. Heard of it?”

“I think.” Yuuri rolled the title around in his head. “Who's the composer?”

Mr. Feltsman did not answer immediately and when he finally did, his voice was suspiciously neutral. “One Richard Wagner.”

Well, no wonder it hadn't come to Yuuri's mind immediately.

He studied Mr. Feltsman's broad, grizzly face for a moment. It was just as carefully neutral as his voice, devoid of any emotion.

“I see.” Yuuri nodded. “A great honour to stage a private performance only for the king's amusement.”

“Honour, but not well paid,” Mr. Feltsman sighed. “Just as well that is Rienzi then.”

Yuuri nodded. “I see.”

“You are tenor, I remember.”

Yuuri nodded. “I am.”

“You would sing a tenor role after being baritone now with Heilmann?”

Admittedly, the words had reached Yuuri's ears soon enough. It just was that he honestly needed some time to process what Mr. Feltsman was saying here.

Some time being a few seconds.

Mr. Feltsman looked at him and Yuuri felt his fists get crampy. He hadn't even realized that he still had his hands tightened.

Loosening the fists, unfurling his fingers, relaxing his palms took far too much effort and was entirely more painful than it had any right to be.

He looked around. Last time he had been here he had been too frazzled to do anything but sitting in his chair, possibly shivering, half numb while Mr. Feltsman had tried to calm him down and then sent him home.

Now, a lot calmer and more receptive for his environment he could actually appreciate the selection. On several he spotted familiar faces. Sara Crispino, Johannes Erhardt, in the newer ones also Mila Babitch. Of course, also Yuri Plisetsky.

And – his heart made a leap – Viktor, several versions of him, the youngest, in the oldest picture could not have been much older than Yuri Plisetsky was now. His hair was shorter, his face whole and smooth and a bit rounder with remnants of childhood. (The proper word for him was “adorable”). He smiled, looking at that face.

“Are you offering me a solo in this opera?”

Mr. Feltsman scoffed. “You would prefer cup of coffee?! Say so!”

Coffee would have been nice indeed, but chances were that Mr. Feltsman would have poured it over his head if Yuuri said so.

“Which role would it be?”

“Title. Cola Rienzi. Tenor. Tribune of Rome. Dies in the end. As always with this man.”

Again the words reached Yuuri's ears rather quickly and then echoed in his head for a bit, while his mind tried to process and make sense of them.

“Are you telling me I should play the male lead in an Opera about Roman history, composed by a man who, as far as I know, has a deep grudge against anything and anyone not protestant north-western European?”

Mr Feltsman at least had the decency to nod and to at least attempt suppressing the rather frightening grin that was twitching around his chin. He failed. “Glad you are catching on. So?”

“Well, it is a big role, I suppose. I should take a look at it, but...” Yuuri wondered if there was a delicate way of putting it. “Don't you think there might be a problem with casting me?”

Mr. Feltsman folded his hands. “Would be?”

“My complexion. My face. Me being pretty much not western and certainly not what the composer had in mind when creating that role.”

“What do you think Wagner had in mind?”, Mr Feltsman asked, grin growing ever wider.

Yuuri got the distinct feeling that the man was enjoying himself immensely.

“For his lead singer? If he is the way he was described to me, then I think he would prefer someone tall, pale.”

“Are pale,” Mr. Feltsman pointed out.

“At least something, but I am not fair haired and have not the dominant profile he would demand, right?”

Mr. Feltsman probably would have fit the bill if one could imagine him several decades younger. Another person suited for this role would have been Plisetsky, but probably Mr. Feltsman had other plans for him or Yuuri wouldn't be sitting here.

Viktor would have been perfect, but unlike Yuuri he was a pure baritone, no chance of ever singing high and strong enough for a tenor role.

“I am sure you could find quite a few tenors in Dresden – in the chorus even – that would look the part a lot better and could sing it just as well.”

“Yes,” Mr. Feltsman said. “Could. Do not want. Do want you to sing. You sing good. Good enough for this. Good enough for lead role. Just nerves. Work on nerves.”

“I am.”

“Good.” Mr. Feltsman nodded. “Then good enough for lead role. And in honest, boy. If I have chance between you and blond, big man and you both sing the same and are both the same good, I give role to you. You know why?”

Yuuri terribly wanted to believe that Mr. Feltsman saw something in him that was destined for greatness or that he wanted his determination to pay off.

Of course, it was nothing of that sort.

“Are not European. Wagner would hate if he knew. What you say?”

Of course. The first lead role he had ever a chance to get and it was part of an incredibly elaborate display of pettiness. This was just Yuuri's luck, apparently.

In any case, though, it was a lead role and so he nodded. “I'm grateful you considered me. Hopefully for more reasons than my looks?”

Mr. Feltsman flashed him another of his frankly terrifying grins and he averted his gaze, looking at one old poster or another, announcing a new production. “Good for me you are good singer. Would have considered anyways.”

That was a comfort at least and Yuuri tore his gaze away from one poster again to smile at Mr. Feltsman. “Thank you.”

“Of course, you have to show you deserve role. Too new as a soloist. Too unknown to simply get role and be done.”

“Of course.” Yuuri nodded. “So you will hold a try-out?”

“You and a few others. Thomas Holzer, too, for the Rienzi. Some other roles have their candidates, but will see who is best suited. Orsini too. Think about Kästner for that. Of course only if shows he is good for that. Good voice. Orisini needs hard voice. And can hold against other soloists. Important. Not being drowned out. Think he has good chance.”

Yuuri couldn't help but smile at that. “I am sure he will be glad to know that you consider him like that.”

“Am sure. Yura's gonna be good Adriano Colonna. High tenor. Can sing mezzo soprano with a bit of work. Needs a challenge, that boy.” Mr Feltsman nodded and he seemed incredibly pleased with himself. It was rare to see him like that, entirely relaxed and content and without that constant frown on his face or his mouth curled up into a snarl.

It was almost disconcerting and Yuuri found his gaze wandering around again.

The walls of Mr. Feltsman's otherwise sparse office were indeed covered with old posters, some simply stating the title and the lead roles, others elaborate paintings, featuring the faces of the lead singers in key scenes.

Yuuri recognized one to be of the most recent production of the  _Magic Flute_ , the one that had framed his arrival in Dresden. Yuri Plisetsky featured prominently as Tamino, holding hands with his Pamina while in the background the profiles of Sara Crispino's Queen of the Night and Johannes Erhardt's Sarastro had a stare-off.

“I might be wrong,” Yuuri said, slowly and deliberately, “But I do get the feeling that you hate Mr. Wagner as much as Yuri Plisetsky adores him.”

Another picture showed a poster for a long past staging of Beethoven's  _Fidelio._

The face of the Don Fernando hit him. It was Viktor. Again, he was a lot younger, of course, the production having been several years in the past and again, of course, but his face was scarred, Yuuri could see it and the artist had taken great pains to display the lack of focus in his left eye. His hair was a bit longer too, beginning to fall into his face and hiding the red welts on his brow.

Yuuri looked at the rest of the poster.

Over his head the name read Viktor Nikiforov.

Mr. Feltsman's eyes followed his gaze and he sighed. “Are mistaken,” he then said. “I hate more than that. Unlike feelings of Yura, mine are right.” When Yuuri could tear his gaze from the young, unscarred, sweet face and the name and the fact that things now were falling into place for him – he could see Mr. Feltsman's mouth had pressed into a hard, harsh line.

“Ask Vitya if you want to know,” he finally said. “Prepare for the try-out.”

“I will.” He got up, nodded a goodbye to Mr. Feltsman and then left the office.

His head was swirling, whirling and there was the distinct pickling of a beginning headache behind his temples as he headed down the stairways back to the stage and the dressing rooms.

Well, obviously he could have connected the dots a bit earlier by himself, if he had thought about it for a bit. Which he hadn't. Viktor lived beneath the theatre. A man named Nikiforov had apparently died here and supposedly haunted the house now, probably along a few more dozens of unfortunate souls. Nothing new, nothing one could spin an obvious connection out of, but still, Yuuri did feel rather stupid right now.

Well, at least he had a solo he could prepare for, right?

Speaking of which, Yuri Plisetsky in a role that was usually sung by a mezzo soprano. It was not entirely unusual for an alto to sing a tenor role – or a tenor to sing an alto role when the composer had found it funny to create a male role but wished for a woman to sing it with the director throwing that idea out of the window and casting a male singer for the male role.

But a tenor singing a mezzo soprano? All the while without having lost some significant body parts in his youth? Well, Plisetsky would have his work cut out for him.

And who else would be waiting for him downstairs than the boy himself, grinning all over his face as he saw Yuuri and – was he running towards him?

Was Yuuri having a very bizarre dream right now, one in which he was offered the lead role to an opera, got some idea about Viktor's reasons for hiding out below and Plisetsky unabashedly expressed happiness at seeing him?

“I take it Yakov just told you, right?” The boy was – the boy was bouncing on his feet.

Whatever had been in the tea this morning, Yuuri definitely had had too much of it.

Or maybe Plisetsky had had too much of something.

“Rienzi, you mean?” he slowly asked. Maybe Plisetsky had caught rabies and was acting weird because of it and if Yuuri wasn't very, very careful, he would bite him.

“Yes, isn't it amazing?” The boy grinned. “I mean, Yakov always had a grudge against Mr. Wagner, but – I mean, it's almost like he's finally seeing some sense, it's great and – has he told you whom he considers for the roles?”

“You for a mezzo soprano role,” Yuuri mumbled.

“And you for the lead!” Yes, he was bouncing. “And – and – and – have you read the libretto yet? Rienzi and Adriano share a ton of scenes and have so much dialogue – do you know Rienzi? You mentioned that you're not that familiar with Wagner.”

Oh, thank goodness. Yuuri shook his head. “My mentor was not very fond of him, so no.”

“Adriano is the lover of Rienzi's sister Irene and offers him support in a troublesome time, but then things fall apart, so it's pretty tragic and sad and everything, really you need to read it.”

He obviously would have to read it when he was preparing for that role, but Yuuri held his tongue. “I will,” was all he said. And then he smiled. “I'm looking forward to singing with you.”

The words had the amazing effect of Plisetsky's face lighting up like the big chandelier in the auditorium, eyes wide and shining, mouth turning up into a genuine, delighted, very toothy smile. “Me too! This is amazing!”

Wide, delighted, happy smiles were always infectious, especially when they came from someone usually so sullen and dour, and Yuuri found himself reciprocating. And it was actually genuine. Singing with Yuri Plisetsky did seem like an enjoyable prospect. At least for now.

 

The news had come on Tuesday. He saw Viktor on Wednesday and of course, Viktor already knew about the new performance as well. Doubtlessly, Yuuri had not been the only recipient of Plisetsky's enthusiasm.

“So?” he asked, while Yuuri was warming up for their lesson. “What do you think, will you take it?”

Yuuri shrugged. “I never worked on anything by him. No idea whether I like his music or not. So far I’ve only read a bit of the libretto and the sheet music.” He sang another harmony.

“And?”

“Hm.” Again he shrugged.

“You don’t sound too enthusiastic about it.”

“I was raised by someone who is not entirely fond of Mr. Wagner or his work, I think that rubbed off a bit.” He took a deep breath and spat it out in small bits. “Plisetsky’s been positively beaming since yesterday, though, so I didn’t say too much,” he then continued. “It’s rare enough to see him in a good mood.”

“Same.” Viktor rubbed his temple - the scarred one. He had trouble with the scars when the weather was about to turn. Yuuri made a mental note to get him some lavender oil to rub in there. It eased the tensions in the gnarled welts of his skin and the scent could work wonders for one's relaxation, especially for someone so tightly wound like the two of them.

“He could not talk about anything else. It has become a rare occasion for him to talk so much to me and be so happy about it.”

"What do you think, though?” Yuuri asked. "About the  _Rienzi,_ I mean “

Viktor shrugged. "I sang it once, was Lord Orsini. I was as glad when it was over as you with the  _Vampyr._ That may or may not have something to do with the fact that I do not think very highly of Mr. Wagner in general.” Again he shrugged. "But then again, it is Yakov producing it. He’ll probably get something good out of it.” With that he clapped his hands. "Alright, l think we should get started. Where do yo want to start?”

"I think the scene where the Nobili are leaving. Not the first big number. but the second, smaller one.” Yuuri scratched his head. “The big entrance demonstrates who he is. Everything afterwards in the scene reinforces that. I don’t think I could sing this without knowing my character.”

Viktor nodded. “It makes sense to me,” he said. “Do you know the melody?”

“I read the sheet music and the libretto, so I have an idea, but could you play?”

“Of course.” Viktor sat down at the cembalo. Pressing the first few keys he was testing the waters with this music, finding his way through the labyrinth of tones.

Then he played again, faster this time, and Yuuri started to hum the words along. “Wohlan, so mag es sein! Die Nobili verlassen bald die Stadt: die Zeit ist da!”

Viktor played it through and then turned around. “You think you can do it?”

Yuuri nodded, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. “Definitely.”

Viktor returned the smile and then played again and now Yuuri sang with his full voice. “Wohlan, so mag es sein! Die Nobili verlassen bald die Stadt: die Zeit ist da!” he called in a demanding tone, commanding even. “Ihr Freunde, ruhig geht in eure Häuser und rüstet euch, zu beten für die Freiheit!” Such he commanded the Roman citizens to prepare themselves to rise up against the Nobili who ruled the city as they pleased.

Finally he ended on a cautious note. “Doch würdig, ohne Raserei, zeig' jeder, dass er Römer sei!” he warned against senseless fights and then, triumphantly, finished, “Willkommen nennet so den Tag, er räche euch und eure Schmach!”

Viktor listened after the sound of Yuuri's voice vibrating through the air. “Amazing. You sing it like it means something.”

“Huh? What do you mean?” Yuuri asked.

“I never managed to convey too many feelings in Wagner's songs. They always rang hollow to me – and I never could make them not do it. But when you sing, it feels true. Almost honest. How are you doing it?”

Yuuri's face grew warm. “I... I don't know. I mean, I just sang it. I got the notes right and then I simply tried to get the words across. Nothing else.”

“I did that, too. I heard other singers do it. Somehow it was only now that I got to feel a modicum of emotion from this.”

Yuuri did not want to think of any of his co-singers as anything but hard-working and dedicated. “You know, it's said that love blinds, but apparently it also affects your hearing.”

Viktor blinked and then chuckled. “Maybe. But that doesn't change the fact that this was a good start. And imagine how you started out when I took you on. Potential, skill and training, but so much room to grow and grow you did and you still can get even better.” He came around the cembalo and stepped behind Yuuri, running a hand over the side of his throat.

Yuuri felt his breath quicken ever so slightly and he leaned into the touch. “Maybe we should get back to work on getting me better then?”

“Good enough to get you a leading role at the very least,” Viktor whispered into his ear before releasing him. “Alright, shall we continue?”

Practise commenced. Yuuri sang through some more arias and longer solo verses rather than trying to get one piece right to get an overall feel for the character and the opera with him and Viktor discussing their way through the whole thing.

Yuuri’s role was a lowborn man who through talent and integrity had risen through the steep Roman society and was now about to gain power and control over the city. He had done so by calling out the nobility of the city for their supposed debauchery and it had been successful, but also had left him vulnerable for attacks from said nobles.

He was eternally worried for his sister. He felt deep affection for his sister’s lover, forgoing a blood feud between their families in favour of reconciliation and unity.

It was too good to be true, though. Of course it was. This was an opera after all.

In the end, Rienzi was all alone, without friends, only his sister at his side, her lover having left them and sworn revenge on him for the loss of his family, and of course - he died. Moreover the city he so had loved and so desperately had tried to save from sinking into corruption now did exactly that while his own name was tarnished, his reputation in tatters.

“I think you can do it,” Viktor said, finally. “You seem to have a good feeling for the character.”

Again Yuuri shrugged. “Could be. I think I should do some reading about di Rienzo though. Maybe the original gives me some interesting ideas for the fiction.”

“Hmhm, do that.” Viktor left the cembalo and came to him. “Enough for today I'd say. Let's go down?” He stood behind Yuuri, placing his hands on his shoulders and then let them slide down over Yuuri's chest, pulling him back towards him a bit.

Yuuri turned his head slightly, just enough that he could nuzzle against the sensitive skin on Viktor's throat. “I'd like that.”

Viktor leaned in as if to kiss him, but then stopped himself and just slid his arm around Yuuri's waist and led him out and down the stairways.

Practise was over. Lesson was over. Something tangible to focus on – over. Something to keep his mind from running in wild circles – over.

Now there was only Viktor, who gently held him on their way down, who never let go of him even as he unlocked and then closed the door and who pressed him against the wall as utter darkness enclosed them, then walked a few steps, then stopped to kiss him again and lean him against another bit of wall until they were both breathless, laughing helplessly into each other's mouths. They proceeded on their way in that fashion and it was entirely too short and too long and still not enough to stop Yuuri's mind from running.

By now he knew the way to Viktor's bed without any light. Potentially they didn't need any light for lovemaking, but Viktor liked to watch him as much as Yuuri enjoyed looking at Viktor at the moment of climax.

So he waited and listened to a snap and a hiss and then watched as Viktor appeared, emerged from the darkness, softly contoured by the light of a single match that he shielded with his long, slender fingers as he put it to the lamp and a few candlesticks, enough for his shape to be illuminated in dark gold. He shook out the match and turned to Yuuri, his seeing eye fixated on him and dark in the dim light as he leaned in to kiss him again, his arms tight against Yuuri's body, firm around him.

Yuuri lifted his arms around him, letting his hands wander with the same restless possessiveness with which Viktor's mouth was starting to map out the curves and the grates and the small valleys of Yuuri's neck and throat. There was a graze of teeth, a flicker of tongue against his tongue and the rush of breath.

Usually it was enough to make Yuuri's mind go blank for moments, for his desire to feel Viktor's skin against his own to flare up and have him try his best to get rid of any excessive clothing.

Desire did flare up. And he did hurry to undress him.

But his mind was nonetheless rather present - or absent, so to speak, and a mind absent was rather hard to go blank.

Viktor noticed. Yuuri had no idea how; his hands had moved entirely on their own, removing Viktor's shirt and then running over the planes of his back, one wandering up to play with his hair.

He pulled away and Yuuri, startled, blinked. “Huh? What's the matter?”

Dim light and a lack of glasses made it hard to tell, but Yuuri was pretty sure that Viktor's brow was furrowed.

“Yuuri, sweetheart, love, darling, dear, sweet Yuuri,” Viktor sighed. “In case you have not noticed, I am very ardently trying to seduce you?”

Yuuri found his left hand wandering around Viktor's hip to cup his still clothed arousal. “I'd have to be very stupid not to notice.”

For a moment Viktor buried his face into Yuuri's neck and breathed in and out heavily. Then he rose again, kissing Yuuri until he was as good as dizzy.

“Then please,” he whispered as they parted, finally and much too soon, “Please, love, when you know you are being seduced, you could show the common decency to be properly seduced. Or say so if you are not in the mood, yes?”

Yuuri propped himself up on his elbows. His nose brushed Viktor's. “I couldn't help but notice – and I am in the mood.”

“Then what's the matter?” Viktor whispered, his breath brushing against Yuuri's lips.

It was so tempting to lean in, kiss him, forget the matter for now and potentially for a good while, but it was fresh and raw in his mind and he said, without thinking, “Why are you alive?”

Then he realized his choice of words and added, “Not, that I am complaining, I love you being alive and everything, but... shouldn't Viktor Nikiforov be a little too dead to make love to his protégé?”

He could feel how Viktor's erection twitched and then bit by bit relaxed, unreleased.

Also Viktor groaned in a rather unerotic way. Yuuri's own innards curdled at it, just a little bit. And yes, his own arousal was fading, leaving behind only a very notable throbbing between his legs.

“Really? Now of all times?”

The throbbing between his legs was not at all helping his mood, Yuuri found. “I came to the conclusion today, so yes, now.”

“Today?” Viktor shook his head. “Do singers really not gossip that much anymore these days or what happened?”

“What?”

“I bet at some point someone had mentioned a row between a baritone soloist and Richard Wagner. Potentially involving one scandal or the other?”

Oh. Yes. Yuuri nodded. “Yes, there was something like that – but they only ever mentioned your last name, so I didn't make the connection. And I mean, in our business it is sadly not too uncommon for a singer or a dancer to commit suicide for one reason or another. And depending on how big an impact this has, they might be considered to be haunting the halls and corridors of their theatre. And...” He laughed, nervously, “Honestly, I heard the story, chucked it up as theatre talk and that was it. I never thought about it.”

“And...” Viktor, now having collected himself, had a hand wander up and down his chest. “Even with this. I live underneath the theatre in a cave. You never asked why. I assumed you were aware of the reasons.”

Yuuri's ears grew hot. “Not really, I just... I just didn't think you would want to talk about it and I...” He shrugged, “I didn't want to pry.”

Viktor smiled at him, heart-shaped and sweet. “You are so dear.” And he kissed him, tenderly and almost with a feeling of reverence, and Yuuri wrapped his arms around him again, moving his hands through his hair. “And you want to know.”

Yuuri's hand found Viktor's fingers and wrapped itself around them. “Only if you don't mind telling.”

Viktor laughed, a little rueful. “Well, our actual plans for the night have said good-bye for now anyways, huh?” He drew Yuuri closer again.

For a long while he said nothing and Yuuri almost thought that he had changed his mind, that he didn't want to talk about it.

He nestled closer.

Finally Viktor drew a breath. “I had a lover here before – well, I had a few, he was the last. A bass singer from Bern. His name was Christophe.”

Yuuri tried very hard to not feel a pang at Viktor's words. Of course he would have had lovers before and Yuuri would be silly to be cross about that. But still. He couldn't help it.

Viktor seemed to notice; he pressed a kiss into Yuuri's hair before continuing. “We had the same sponsor. He took us to his bed pretty often as well.” Another rather rueful laugh. “It was a good bit of extra money and we did not think much about it. I will not apologize for it, either. But it is not good. Not terribly bad or soul-destroying either, but it is not good. I hope Yura will never start with this.” His hand around Yuuri's shoulders tensed.

Yuuri reached up and ran a finger over Viktor's cheek. He found it hot and Viktor, after a moment, turned away from the touch.

“It's not that unusual, though, to sleep with a sponsor,” he said, hoping to ease Viktor's feelings a bit.

It didn't work as well as he might have hoped.

Viktor coughed up something like a laugh. “Does not make it right. Or good. As soon as money or something like it is involved, you are not free in your decisions anymore. If the money is laying on the bedside, it is even worse. Maybe even for both.” Viktor again ran a hand through Yuuri's hair. “Let us assume our dear Siamese spice trader is your sponsor.”

“He's certainly acting like he is already, so that sounds fair,” Yuuri mused, already suspecting and not really liking where this was going.

Viktor smiled against his temple. “Let us also suppose he would ask you to his bed. What would you do – or rather what would you do if I were not in the picture?”

Yuuri liked Phichit too much to have ever thought about it. “Do you believe me when I say that I have absolutely no idea?”

“I do.” Another kiss on his temple. “Also, you would be very likely to factor in the money into your decision, at least at second thought. A sponsor supports you, enables you to a somewhat grander lifestyle, to buy better clothes and food or to save up for something, they can lever their influence to grant you better chances for a lead role and they can introduce you to people with even more influence – refusal might mean losing all that.” He sighed. “I am not saying that there was never ever a happy marriage born from this, but the powers are distributed very unequally. For me and Christophe it was almost something like blackmail. Our sponsor knew about our affair. He could have reported us.”

“But if he wanted you to sleep with him, he would have risked you reporting him as well, right?” Yuuri asked, already knowing the answer.

“Whom would you believe, a distinguished member of Saxony's knighted nobility, family members married to almost every royal family of Europe, or two foreign entertainers? Not German, a class already whoring themselves out for the entertainment of their respectable audience and always greedy for money.”

There was nothing Yuuri could say to this and so he left it with a single, resigned, “Yeah.”

“That about sums it up,” Viktor said. “Yura was still very young back then. I think he heard me and Yakov arguing about it sometimes. Yakov never liked that. He was not entirely fond of Christophe, but he could live with him being my lover. He always said one of my sort was bad enough, he did not need two.”

Yuuri found himself chuckling.

“But he was so mad when he found out we slept with our sponsor. He was too mad to yell. It was terrifying. I did not understand why. I suppose, Yura and I still carried some remaining serf mentality with us at that point. Yura still does, I think. He turned it into anger, though. Not the worst thing you can do with the knowledge that you were born to be considered property.” He chuckled. “He was a sweet child back then, though. Although he was constantly annoyed by Chris. Chris loved to tease him.”

“I can't possibly imagine why,” Yuuri commented dryly. Then, softer he said, “You loved him.”

“I can stop talking about him if it hurts you.”

That was an answer and no answer at all at the same time.

“You loved him,” Yuuri repeated.

“I did. A lot. He was...” Viktor paused, apparently looking for words. “Night in summer. Velvety and hot and almost oppressive like this and you could not resist getting drunk on him.”

Yuuri felt how Viktor lifted his hand to his face and then the brush of lips against his fingers. “You both have the same kindness and sweet heart. But you are more like a day in late spring. Bright and silky smooth air and colourful.”

Yuuri could not help but laugh a little at this, his voice almost pearling out of him. “You are so sweet. What did I do to deserve you?”

“There's no day I do not ask that to myself with you.” Viktor pulled him close again. “Our sponsor was alright, most of the time.”

The chapter of the past lover was over then. Yuuri wondered whether it was really necessary for him to understand how Viktor ended up here or whether Viktor simply had needed to talk about him to someone at last.

“He had his weird moments, though. And he was clear about what he would do if Christophe and I did not comply to his wishes.”

“Blackmail,” Yuuri repeated.

“Yes. We were young. Christophe was unhappy about it, I was unhappy about it, but I was still used to this, more or less. He always said he admired my patience.” Viktor cleared his throat. “In any case, he had a penchant for... parties. I think the better word for it would be _orgy_. Not at his own home, never there. But he liked to rent rooms and invite people. His favourite haunt was something like a back alley brothel, providing boys and men for the like-minded male customer. It was always a rather big thing, a lot of wine and opium. He liked being in action there. Or watch the action.”

Yuuri felt a slight wave of nausea coming upon him.

“Well, one time there was a bit more action than anticipated. There was a raid. Probably someone had reported the house for being a male brothel or even just an unregistered one. It was a huge mess. All three of us got out, but we were recognized. Christophe and I both were pretty well known from the stage. Our sponsor found that the wisest course of action was to go on an extended journey to Italy or France or somewhere else.”

“And Christophe?”

“He left the very next day, heading for Basel. And he pleaded with me to go with him until the moment he entered the carriage.”

“You didn't, though,” Yuuri observed. “You stayed here. Why?”

“I thought it might not be so bad. Christophe and I kept to ourselves that evening, only watching. We never had much taste for such orgies – which is surprising, considering the first impression Chris tended to leave on people.” He chuckled and it sounded almost genuinely amused. “I hope you can meet him someday. You would probably like him. And you would understand what I mean. In any case the worst thing one could accuse us of was that we were present. None of the boys claimed that we took part in the action, so we could always say that we were just there on the bidding of our sponsor. Who, I might add, did very much take part in the action. So, legally we were safe. And unlike Chris I thought the scandal that would follow would be nothing I could not weather. I thought I would come out alright. And...” His voice faltered. “I wanted to be together with him. I did not want to lose him. But even less I wanted to leave Yakov and Yura alone, I could...” He made a strangled noise and when Yuuri reached up to his cheek, this time he found it wet.

Carefully he sat up, wrapping Viktor in his arms, pulling him closer.

There were no wrecking sobs, nor loud, painful outcries. Viktor simply leaned against him, tears streaming from his eyes and over Yuuri's shoulder, his body shaking slightly in a soft tremor that was as soft as the constant stream of, “Mne ochen' zhal” and sometimes a “Isvinitye”.

Yuuri at least understood enough Russian for that. “Don't be. No need to apologize,” he whispered. “It's alright. It's alright.”

It didn't even last that long, but the end of it was noticeable. Viktor's whole body slumped heavily against him, exhausted and spent and his face still hot.

Viktor swallowed. “I could not... I could not leave them. Yura was still so young and back then still so attached to me – unbelievable, huh?”

“He is still attached to you,” Yuuri argued, running a hand through Viktor's long, tousled hair.

“I thought it would be alright. But it wasn't. The scandal was all over the place. I had trouble leaving the house. I could not go on stage. I could not risk talking to any of my colleagues unless I wanted them to catch some of it, too and...” He took a deep breath. 

Yuuri drew him closer.

“Thing was, me staying would have very soon started to cast a shadow on Yura, too and… I could not have that. It was not his fault. He should not have to put up with that filth because of me and he…” Viktor swallowed. “I had to disappear. Preferably in a fashion that would convince everyone.”

“So you faked a suicide?”

“At least the pretext for it. Yakov actually offered to strangle me with his own hands, but well, that would have meant he would soil his beloved carpet. Another thing I would not stand for.”

Yuuri’s hand clenched around his fingers.

“It mostly involved appearing shaken up and troubled for a few days. That was easy. I _was_ troubled. I honestly....” He paused. “Once or twice during this time I did consider not faking my death. I did not, though.”

Yuuri pressed a kiss on the back of Viktor's hand. “Thank God for miracles.”

“Then I only had to goad Wagner into saying something he might consider insulting or hurtful. I do not even know anymore what it was. Just that I was hurt and that it was something I would normally just laugh at. Mr. Wagner never was one to come up with clever insults. But he was always very proud of those he came up with. And he was certainly proud of this. I left after this confrontation. At night Yakov smuggled me back into the theatre and let me slip down here. He had prepared a little, set up a fire place and brought down some clothes and bedding and some chests for storage. And the next day I officially had committed suicide. Over time we managed to bring down a few more things, a bed, some furnishings, tableware. Yakov was not happy. He wanted me to take the opportunity and leave.”

“You stayed, though.”

“Yura. He was... he did not take my suicide well. I wanted to be sure he would be fine. So I stayed. And then I let him know I was still alive. After that I could not leave again, right? So I am here.”

“He _is_ your little brother, huh?” Yuuri mused softly. 

“In any way that matters at least,” Viktor admitted.

“You are his brother too, then?”

“I think. It is difficult to say, these days.”

“And Plisetsky even now is still looking up to a man who supposedly drove his brother into suicide?”

“I am not dead. Maybe things would be different if I had stayed dead for him, but – I could not.”

“Plisetsky still adores him. Why? Just... why?”

“I cannot say. I do not know.”

Yuuri heard and felt Viktor shift a little in his arms.

“Maybe,” he then said, “it is because he is young. Youth is easily impressed.”

Maybe so. That still didn't mean Plisetsky had a free pass at being such a brat.

But there was of course no way he could say anything to Viktor about it, not right now. Maybe later, at some other point.

Right now all he would do – could do – was holding Viktor tightly in his arms until they both fell asleep and holding him until they woke up.

Thankfully, right now this was also all Viktor needed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... something is happening. Or set up to happen. A chance for drama on the horizon - entirely Wagner-free drama though. No Wagner. Never ever. Nope. Never.
> 
> In other news I survived my birthday and my family, my fu demon needs to get neutered in order for me to ever get sleep again and life is as crazy as ever.
> 
> Thank you again for reading and - see you in a bit. Maybe on my tumblr or something. :D (which incidentally is THE place to check out if you want me to write something and wonder about the whats and hows.)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rehearsals start. Bitching is being done. People meow.

Chapter 16

 

The try-out came a week later with Yuuri being well-prepared for it and Yuuri managed to keep himself calm and collected enough to come out, state his name and the role he was trying out for and sing – and sing well enough that he actually could believe  himself that he had a fair chance for the role.

That he actually got it was still a pleasant shock – Mr. Feltsman had made it clear that Yuuri would only get the role if the try-out didn't present him with somebody far above his level of expertise.

Plisetsky as Adriano Colonna was equally unsurprising.

Andreas, August and several other chorus singers were competing for Orsini and this time Andreas got the part.

Sara as Irene, however, was pretty much set in stone. Maybe this was one of the reasons Mr. Feltsman wanted Plisetsky as Adriano. If Mila – perfectly able to turn herself into a mezzosoprano with enough time and training – played the role, Yuuri doubted the performance would be suitable for a royal audience. Not to mention the rehearsals. Especially since both of them were still giddy with how much stage time they shared in _Undine;_ when watching them Yuuri could get an inkling on why Plisetsky occasionally was so annoyed with him and Viktor.

The on -going _Undine_ was still rehearsed and now, finally, they also started working on Spohr's  _Faust;_ a date for the try-outs for the solo roles was set and sheet music as well as libretti were dispensed. Mr. Feltsman finally scheduled extra rehearsal hours for them, lengthening the time for chorus rehearsal to two hours and slating up another slot for the soloists that was so far dedicated only to the Rienzi and would soon enough become the slot for its dress rehearsal – to which Mr. Feltsman denied access to any audience. Which was just as well, they were stressed out enough as it was.

Between that and his lessons with Viktor, Yuuri's free time was currently almost non-existent; for now that was alright. It would not go on forever  like this . Soon enough he would find time again to do something else during the day and soon enough  he would not be too bloody exhausted after a performance on top of his lessons  anymore to just fall into Viktor's arms, his bed and then simply asleep.

At least Yuuri dearly hoped so because he would probably take a month or two of the current situation, maybe a little bit longer, but any longer than that and he would most definitely crack, which he could do without.

All in all , though, he enjoyed it. He worked hard and saw results. He had something to work for. He could actually claim some form or the other of success and there was more potential success to come.

The only regret was that the only things he and Viktor did  together right now were his lessons and maybe falling asleep together. After a whole day of rehearsals and performances , Yuuri was too tired to read to Viktor or talk at length. Most of the time , he was already half - asleep when they sat down for dinner.

His evenings with his friends had gotten rarer for equal reasons. He preferred spending his time reading up on his role, memorizing his lines and – to be honest – give his voice a bit  of  rest. His voice could do with all the rest it could get between all the singing and vocal training and discussion of the character of Rienzi Yuuri did with Viktor for much of his lessons right now. It helped him understand the role, or so he hoped.

Viktor most definitely didn't like the development, but for now he bore it with the same patience and belief in its temporary nature as Yuuri did. After all, he too enjoyed Yuuri succeeding and being no small factor in his success.

Plisetsky, however, posed a bit of a problem. Not Plisetsky himself right now, for once the boy was so unproblematic that Yuuri was actually worrying for his health, despite himself.

The problem was more on Yuuri's side of things for once.

He still didn't get it. Plisetsky was still very young, so maybe it was normal to idolize someone to the point of worship, but even for someone who was only in the middle of their second decade that worship would certainly shatter if that person had a hand in the suicide of your brother. Or maybe Yuuri was projecting because he never had had a brother. Or someone he could worship to the extent Plisetsky seemed to do with Wagner. And potentially  it was the fact that Viktor was most definitely hurt by both Plisetsky's worship of Wagner and by his, at best, flippant behaviour towards him. Yuuri knew he was, even though he went to great lengths to not show his hurt, laughing at Plisetsky's abrasive behaviour like it was a kitten hissing at him and it was the most adorable thing in the world.

He was, in fact, angry enough that it affected his behaviour and after a while Plisetsky noticed.

He had gotten into a routine of greeting Yuuri with a short nod or even a “Hello” when he was in a good mood and had gotten used to get a reply in kind.

Right now , however , Yuuri was really not in the mood for gracing him with any more than a curt nod. Any more  of it and he might have snapped at the boy and despite everything that was not a thing he wanted to do. This also meant he quickly dashed off whenever he noticed Plisetsky approaching them.

Plisetsky noticed of course. At first he seemed to shrug it off.

Andreas commented, “Wow, look at that, Yuuri outbitched Plisetsky!”

Probably that was not something to be proud of, Yuuri suspected, but he was fine with that.

Plisetsky didn't greet him for a while afterwards.

And finally – and not at all surprisingly – it in fact did affect the way they sang together.

“O Schwester, sprich, was dir geschah, welch Leid dir Ärmsten angetan?” Yuuri sang, holding Sara's hand who was still trembling after her character Irene had been assaulted by some noblemen.

Sara looked up to him, a shaky, shivering smile around her lips. Ich bin gerettet,” she assured him and then pointed to Plisetsky, who stood aside, the only one of the nobles who had not fled the scene, “Jener war's, der mich aus ihrer Hand befreit.”

Yuuri's Rienzi looked at the man who had saved his sister from being raped and voiced his shock. “Adriano, du! Wie, ein Colonna beschützt ein Mädchen vor Entehrung?” he exclaimed. His disbelief at a member of the nobility protecting an innocent girl was pointed and sharp with Yuuri's own annoyance.

Of course, Pisetsky had picked up on this and apparently today was the day he was striking back.

He walked up to Yuuri, arms crossed, then he spread them. “Mein Blut, mein Leben für die Unschuld!” he declared and then folded his arms again. “Rienzi, wie? Kennst du mich nicht?

Wer nannte je mich einen Räuber?” Adrianos' disappointment at not being considered for the good person that he was, was just as sharp with Plisetsky's irritation as Rienzi's exclamation had been with Yuuri ’s annoyance.

“Du weilst, Adriano?” Yuuri placed an arm around Sara's shoulder and looked up and down on her. God, he wanted to slap the boy. “ Ziehst nicht hinaus zum Kampfe für Colonna?”

Plisetsky shot him a pointed look. “Weh mir, dass ich dein Wort versteh', erkenne, was du in dir birgst, dass ich es ahne, wer du bist, und doch dein Feind nicht werden kann!”

His refusal to feel attacked by Rienzi's words did not come out quite like it should be.

Mr. Feltsman noticed and he waved for them to stop.

The music died.

“Katsuki! Yuri!”

Yuuri on instinct drew in his head, causing Sara to whisper, “Don't look like a goddamn turtle, you'll just make it worse. ”

Yuuri stretched his neck again.

“Better,” Sara whispered.

Unlike  him, Plisetsky didn't even flinch. “What?!”

“What are you two thinking?! Rienzi and Adriano are supposed to forge a friendship in this scene, not hiss at each other like alley cats! Get a grip! Continue!”

Plisetsky and Yuuri exchanged looks, both rather icy.

The music picked up where it had left off and Yuuri took a breath. “Ich kannte stets nur edel dich, du bist kein Greuel dem Gerechten,” he praised. And he still couldn't help the fact that his singing was dripping with sarcasm. “Adriano! Darf ich Freund dich nennen?”

“Rienzi, ha, was hast du vor?” Plisetsky asked, impressed by the confidence and self-assurance, but also disturbed by it, “Gewaltig seh' ich dich, sag an, wozu gebrauchst du die Gewalt?”

Yuuri spread his arms, letting go of Sara, declaring Rienzi's intent ion to bring Rome to freedom – or what Rienzi saw as freedom. “Nun denn! Rom mach' ich gross und frei, aus seinem Schlaf weck' ich es auf; und jeden, den im Staub du siehst, mach' ich zum freien Bürger Roms.”

The exchange went on with Adriano being hesitant, terrified, yet intrigued and obviously also beguiled by Rienzi's sister Irene. This part, Plisetsky got right. But when he, after Rienzi tried to convince him to his cause, pointed out that this freedom for any and all people in Rome would be only achieved by a brutal uprising of the unwashed masses and at the cost of the lives of his family and his peers, his voice took on yet another edge.

Well, with Plisetsky's political ideas it was clear he would very much love for the unwashed masses to rise and shed the blood of the nobility his own character was part of.

Rienzi managed to turn the talk to his brother whom a relative of Adriano had murdered. It was this reminder that swayed Adriano and had him pledge himself to Rienzi in order to atone for this crime.

“Adriano, sei mein,” Yuuri demanded, “sei ein Römer!”

“Goddamnit!”

Again the piano music died as abruptly as if Mr. Feltsman had put it to the guillotine.

Yuuri flinched.

Mr. Feltsman looked as if at any moment a blood vessel in his face would burst “You two! Like cats! Bad cats! Here!”

Both of them scrambled to get to him. Interestingly, Plisetsky actually seemed to fear Mr. Feltsman's wrath as much as any of them.

“Georgi!”

The man raised his head from behind his piano. “Here!”

Mr. Feltsman shuffled through his folio and then threw a few sheets of music at him. “Play it!”

Georgi looked at the music and nodded.

The notes were low, heavy and grave, reminding of a funeral.

Yuuri recognized it in an instant. And of course he sang “Mia-a-u!”

The music was instantly drowned out by a wave of laughter. Sara Crispino had both hands over her mouth. Oh great. Yuuri sighed. Great, really great.

“Ha,” Plisetsky sneered, “you're told something about cats and you start meowing? How weak are you?!”

“Oh, Katsuki knows his part already?” Yakov asked and handed them their own sheets.

Yuuri only needed a short glance at it to see that yes, indeed, it was the  _Duetto buffo di due gatti_ . Now where would Mr. Feltsman have gotten that?

Despite his slightly annoyed mood  only moments ago , Yuuri had to suppress a grin. Especially when he saw the face Plisetsky was making, eyes growing wide, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Go! Over there! You practise this!” Mr. Feltsman ordered. “Half hour! Is easy, half hour is enough!”

Yes, half an hour was more than enough to learn the  _Cat's Duet_ .

Nonetheless , Plisetsky's mouth opened in protest.

“Go! Study!” Mr. Feltsman bellowed, “Go!”

Sighing they went in the wings, settling down. Yuuri, as it seemed , would be cat number one and he went through his part for a bit, but since he was most definitely very firm with both parts he had time to watch Plisetsky dig into the work.

“You wanna go through it?” he finally offered in an admittedly not whole-hearted attempt to smooth things over. After all, he had been the one showing most of the coldness that was going on between them right now. He shouldn't have acted that way. It was neither professional nor right when Plisetsky had no clue why Yuuri's attitude had changed.

Plisetsky raised his head and Yuuri got the distinct feeling that the boy very much wanted to rip his throat out.

“No, then? Alright, I'll... I'll be over there.” He quickly retreated to another corner and sat down, humming the melody to himself, practising how the individual _Miau's_ should be drawn out.

More often , though, he looked up, glancing to Plisetsky , who was focused on his own sheet music, mouth moving, head softly rising and falling in an imitation of the movement of the music.

And he was smiling. Grinning, even. His shoulders moved in something like a chuckle; good, he knew where this number was going.

“Katsuki! Yura! Come here!”

Their half hour was up and they rose and came back out on the stage.

Mr. Feltsman stared at them. “Now then! You two! Sing! Georgi!”

“Yessir!” Georgi saluted and then started playing, the notes dripping from his fingers, softly collecting and pooling around them.

Yuuri quickly started his first “Mia-u”, drawn out, serene and soulful, his voice carrying. It would have been suitable for an aria based on Hamlet's great soliloquy, but alas.

The second “Mia-u” had a slight rise. The third was the longest, the one he could put the most pride and arrogance into.

There were some chuckles of disbelief.

Plisetsky repeated his meowing, his last “Mia-u” as drawn out as Yuuri's , but where Yuuri had displayed arrogance, he could show annoyance – and he did, coming close in Yuuri's space as he grew louder and angrier in his singing.

Yuuri tried to be not perturbed by it, going on with whatever his “Mia-us” were supposed to convey. Something of great importance, for sure.

For sure was that the short “Miau”s Plisetsky threw in were sarcastic commentary that provoked Yuuri more and more until they were actually discussing whatever angry cats were discussing in a rather belligerent tone, ending this part in a hiss.

They sang in duet then, melody going up and down in waves, probably in an attempt to get along. It was in vain.

The piano melody picked up both in speed and perkiness as another, animated discussion evolved that consisted mostly of Yuuri berating Plisetsky and Plisetsky brushing him off with snarky commentary.

Yuuri grew more and more angry and finally it did come to blows – only musically of course, because Mr. Feltsman would have killed them if they were to start a ruckus on stage.

Yuuri watched Plisetsky's face the entire time, a carefully constructed mask of indifference to the music he was singing. The mask lasted only a little longer than the first movement of the duet. Then, whenever he got to place a “Mia-u” his mouth quirked up and his shoulders were shaking a little more than the singing would have justified.

He was having fun.

Yuuri was having fun  as well , each note bubbling  up in him with laughter that he had to hold back from his singing, each “Mia-u” a desperate attempt not to laugh , and Plisetsky's face didn't help at all with that.

Finally. They stopped in their argument, both taking a deep breath and then, one last, long, crystal clear “Mia-u”, an end to their disagreement, a symbol of harmony – and a giggle fit.

Yuuri would always fully accept the blame for having laughed first, but it was Plisetsky's fault that he had laughed in the first place. The boy had looked so serious, fully focussed on not laughing, brow furrowed and nose wrinkled and how was Yuuri not supposed to laugh when he was seeing something like that?

The first giggle was harmless and he would have gotten a hold of himself. But then Plisetsky raised an eyebrow at him, undoubtedly because of the giggle.

And then Yuuri was most definitely lost.

A second giggle left him.

And Plisetsky's mouth quivered and then he opened it and fell in.

Apparently their audience had struggled not to laugh just as much as them, for the moment Yuuri giggled a second time – abandoning the last note for good – was also the moment the other singers started laughing in earnest.

It took them longer to recover than any of them would later care to admit. They were professional singers, after all, not a group of children who could be easily entertained with such a little ditty.

Finally Sara Crispino wiped her eyes. “Oh dear, to hear that here, I cannot believe it!” Her accent was thicker when she was laughing. It was charming, Yuuri found. “In Napoli me and my brother always sang it, all the time, it made our parents so mad and our director!”

“What was that?!” Andreas demanded, fighting for his breath. “Who on earth would...”

“Some Englishman,” Sara said. “Put together some melodies from some operas and cantatas and wrote the libretto on the premise of two cats fighting.” Her face was reddened with laughter and her carefully applied make-up, subtle as it normally was, was now notable due to being rather smudged around her eyes.

“We sung it all the time at the Scala, whenever two singers had beef with each other. Maestro Cialdini wrote to me lately,” Yuuri chuckled. “He says he is beginning to regret ever having done that. They are working on _Otello_ right now and apparently the singers take a certain melody for an invitation to burst out in meowing.”

Sara nodded. “Now why does that sound familiar? Oh, I know, because me and Michele would always start meowing during rehearsal for any of the used pieces whenever it was opportune. Did I mention that our director hated having a couple of very impish twins in his children's choir?”

Mila had just recovered and was now loosing it again. It was always amazing how people, once they had started laughing, found it incredibly hard to stop and would continue at the slightest provocation.

“Ugh,” Mr. Feltsman sighed. “You Italians. Always impish, not just you and brother, Sara.” But his mouth was twitching as well. Yuuri also could have sworn that he had heard a rather bellowy laugh.

“Well. Good. We laughed. We talked! We work now! Katsuki, Yuri, work well now! Again! Scene with Rienzi, Irene and Adriano! Now!”

They ushered themselves to their positions and Yuuri again placed an arm around Sara's shoulder, her  form  quivering and shivering in his protective, brotherly embrace.

Rienzi and Adriano talked to each other for the first time.

“Du weilst, Adriano?” Yuuri asked, “Ziehst nicht hinaus zum Kampfe für Colonna?”

The scene played out better than before, Yuuri had to admit. The general laughter, at least for now, had diffused some of the tensions that were running between them.

“Doch an das Ziel der stolzen Wünsche gelangst du nur durch blut'ge Bahn,” Plisetsky declared once again now, voicing his concern about how Rienzi might only win his cause by bloody and violent means, worrying for his family and his peers and their safety, “durch eines feigen Pöbels Wut, durch meiner Brüder, meines Vaters Blut!”

“Unseliger!”, Yuuri's Rienzi called, jumping at the opportunity, “Blut! Blut! Mahne mich nicht an Blut! Ich sah es fliessen - noch ist es nicht gerächt!” He let go of Sara for this scene, walking a tight, well-measured circle around Plisetsky. The boy looked as uncomfortable as the situation demanded.

“Wer war es,” he hissed, recalling the still unatoned for murder of his brother, “der einst meinen armen Bruder, den holden Knaben, als am Tiberstrande voll Unschuld er Irenen Kränze wand!”

Plisetsky's Adriano was falling for the guilt-tripping Rienzi was laying on him.

“Wer war's, der ihn aus rohem Missverstand erschlug? Wer war es, den ich für diesen Mord vergebens um Gerechtigkeit anrief?”

“Ha, Schande! Es war ein Colonna!” And he had fallen for it. The deliverance this time was a good deal more convincing, lacking the sneer and derision Plisetsky had added to it before. Yes, laughter was indeed the best medicine of all.

“Ha, ein Colonna!” Yuuri's Rienzi jumped at the chance to dig in deeper into the wound he had just struck. “Was tat der arme Knabe dem edlen, dem patrizischen Colonna? Blut?” And he went on to explain how he had sworn an oath on the blood of his murdered brother, “Ja, Adriano di Colonna, ich tauchte diese Hand tief in das Blut, das aus dem Herzen meines Bruders quoll, und schwur einen Eid! Weh dem, der ein verwandtes Blut zu rächen hat!”

The gullible young man, utterly smitten by the sister of both the boy his relative had murdered and the plain terrifying man before him, shivered. “Rienzi, du bist fürchterlich! Was kann ich tun, die Schmach zu sühnen?” he asked, begging for a way to atone.

Yuuri straightened his back. This was the moment his Rienzi, a spider in its web, manipulative and in a way terrible in his good intentions, had waited for. “Adriano, sei mein, sei ein Römer!” he demanded and of course, Adriano was most happy to pledge himself to Rienzi's cause.

“Ein Römer? Lass mich ein Römer sein!”

The scene played out with Adriano, Rienzi and then even Irene (as if the composer and librettist had just remembered that she was in the scene as well) took turns in confirming how Adriano was still a full-blooded Roman with a Roman heart, happily dedicating himself to bring freedom and happiness to Rome and the Roman people, no longer standing for the indignity they were suffering.

Yuuri ended the scene with entrusting Irene to Adriano's protection as a proof how much he trusted and valued him, promising that soon they would see his work finished in all its glory. With “Bald seht ihr mich, das Werk naht der Vollendung!“ he left the stage.

Rienzi, Yuuri concluded, was an utter prick. His historical inspiration was controversial at best, but this incarnation, for all his noble intents and ideas, was just downright disgusting.

Plisetsky and Sara sang the love duet between Adriano and Irene and then there was peace, at least for a moment.

Mr. Feltsman looked at them, brow furrowed. “Not good,” he then declared, “but better than first time. Work. More work to do.”

Rehearsal went on for another hour, but thankfully Mr. Feltsman did not go through any more scenes that had Yuuri and Plisetsky singing together. Apparently he had a lot less faith in the magic power of laughter than Yuuri had, for he still shot them angry glares. Which they fully deserved, admittedly. Their behaviour had been rather unprofessional.

Yuuri tried his best not to mind

He also tried his best not to mind when Plisetsky came up to him, arms crossed.

Sadly Plisetsky was not one to be easily not minded.

“So?” he asked.

Yuuri turned around to him. “So what?”

“What's your deal? Why are you so...” He faltered, apparently realizing that he had no apt way to describe Yuuri's behaviour without sounding like he wanted to be liked by him.

“So what?” Yuuri asked again. It was mean, yes, but nonetheless the enjoyment he was currently deriving from Plisetsky winding and withering was nothing to scoff at.

“What is your problem with me?!” The boy finally burst out, glaring daggers at him. If Yuuri had ever had any doubts about his dislike for being laughed at, it was now well and truly shattered.

“Nothing,” Yuuri said. “I...” He shrugged. “There's nothing. I am probably just stressed out. That's all. Nothing to do with you.” That was not entirely true, but Plisetsky could not prove otherwise now, could he?

Plisetsky raised an eyebrow. “Stress, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” Plisetsky said, “if you call this stress already and let it get to you, then maybe you're not worth as much as I thought you for.”

Yuuri's head went hot. This damned, stupid, awful little prick of...

“Strange,” he said, before he had time to think of his words, “the feeling is very much mutual, you know.” With that he turned around, stomping off fuming.

 

The fuming lasted well into the evening, with only a short break when Viktor came to his dressing room to wish him good luck. That calmed him down enough to feel – again – a slight twinge of nerves, but the moment he went outside and saw Plisetsky, his annoyance with the boy flared up again in a blaze and with that blaze he went on stage and sang through with a clarity and security he had rarely ever experimented before and surely not when singing a solo role. It was not a good kind of clarity.

He still didn't feel well and hurried to get upstairs to the attic.

The moment he was through the door Viktor was there, pulling him into a close, tight hug that almost knocked the air out of Yuuri's lungs. He lifted his arms, wrapping them around Viktor's waist , and it took him a long time to let go of him again and only after the heaviness that had followed the blaze had lifted, bit by bit, with each long breath.

“Better?” Viktor finally asked.

“Hm.” Yuuri wasn't sure if he was, but at least he felt somewhat calmer. “A bit. I guess. How could you tell?”

“You were tense. Like a wound-up clock, but not allowed to run.” Viktor pressed a kiss on his temple; his Italian was more flawed than usual, his accent thicker. Usually this meant he was upset or existed about something. “Talk later, if you like? For now, lesson?”

“Wagner,” Yuuri sighed. “Damn _Rienzi.”_

“And Spohr,” Viktor reminded him. “But yes, Rienzi first. Want to go through the fourth act?”

“Yes, gladly.”

Viktor chuckled.

“Well, not gladly,” Yuuri admitted, “but the sooner we get started on this, the sooner we will be done with it, right?”

“Right. How do you see Rienzi in act four?”

Yuuri shrugged. “Well, he's been a manipulator for the entire play, if you ask me. Blackmail, guilt trip, propaganda against his opponents...”

“You do not like him much, huh?” Viktor asked.

“Not really. Nicola de Rienzo was interesting. Pretty much brought his downfall onto himself, but...” Yuuri shrugged. “He was human. Rienzi doesn't feel human to me. I mean, he has good intentions, but his methods are despicable. But nonetheless we are supposed to consider him brilliant and generous and wonderful, at least if you stick to Wagner's idea. I just cannot portray him that way. He is a manipulative bastard with good intentions who is rightfully doomed to fail.”

Viktor nodded. “Understand. So act four?”

“Everything's fallen apart around him, only his sister is with him anymore, even though her lover has tried to persuade her to run off with him. His friend is obviously about to betray him – with good reason, honestly – and he's feeling how the power he has accumulated is crumbling in his very hands. He senses his doom – honestly, I think he's about to go insane.”

Viktor nodded softly at this. “Insane, you say.”

“Hm. Tends to happen to people with an immense desire for control who then loose it.”

“Well, Adriano is not entirely sane either anymore in this act,” Viktor pointed out. “His attempts at keeping the peace have failed, Rienzi has caused the death of his entire family, he is torn between revenge, former friendship and the love for Rienzi's sister.”

“So, to sum it up, everybody looses it in the end,” Yuuri sighed. “Brilliant.”

“Brilliant is not word I would use,” Viktor commented. “Is Wagner, after all.”

This caused Yuuri  to  chuckle a bit. “Well then. Let's get on with it, shall we?”

“As you wish.” Smiling, Viktor went to the cembalo and sat down, starting to play.

Yuuri tried to imagine how Rienzi would walk up to the group of his potential would-be assassins, not suspecting anything and talking to them. “Ihr nicht beim Feste?”, he asked, unhappy that some people might not partake in the celebrations for his victory against the nobles, “Achtet ihr so gering den Sieg, nicht Dankes wert?”

Viktor paused and provided Adriano's lines of shock and terror as he saw his assassination attempt thwarted by the presence of his beloved Irene. “O Gott! Irene an seiner Seite! Ihn schützt ein Engel; wie vollend' ich's?” His baritone had no chance of ever rising to anything even remotely resembling a mezzo soprano .

“Wie, oder ist der Mut dahin, da ihr die Brüder fallen saht?” Yuuri continued and was careful to add a hint of mockery to his voice that quickly shifted to something like self-righteousness. “Sind dafür jene nicht vernichtet, die sonst, als ihr noch friedlich waret, euch Väter, Söhne kalt erschlugen und eure Weiber schändeten?” God, Yuuri hated that character and right now he decided to add a lack of empathy to the list. No matter how great a victory was and how much evil was undone by this victory (or how much evil one might think undone), when people had lost friends and family they usually were not up to celebration.

Nonetheless he continued, praising the men before him for having partaken in this glorious fight for Rome's freedom. “O, für wie weit geringre Not weiht' einst der Römer sich dem Tod! Doch ihr schlugt euch für Ehr und Ruhm, für eurer Freiheit Heiligtum! Ihr habt gesiegt, o lasst mich nimmer glauben, dass ihr den Sieg, der Ruhm euch gab, verwünschet!” Then his voice gained another quality, almost like a sermon a priest might give in church. He had to draw a bit from his Pater Heilmann role for that. “Baut fest auf mich, den Tribunen! Haltet getreu an meiner Seite! Gott, der bis hier mich führte, Gott steht mir bei, verlässt mich nie.”

Viktor played it out. “A bit wobbly on the higher notes, I fear. Focus on that first. Then the expression. I like, by the way. Good. Rienzi is good villian with you.”

“He appears more like a villain to me,” Yuuri said with a shrug. “And thankfully his role as main character doesn't mean he can't be also a villain.”

“Oh yes, oh yes.” Viktor nodded. “This makes Adriano hero then?”

“A rather tragic one at that,” Yuuri confirmed. “To be honest, he would make a more likeable and relatable main character. But with Rienzi as the lead, being the way he is, I have to admit it probably makes for the more interesting narrative.” He sighed. “I just wish the creator wouldn't be so adamant on framing Rienzi as the hero when he is not.”

Viktor shrugged. “You know, it is written and composed. You can make of it what you like. Audience can make what they like of what you make of it. I always found this is the best about stage performance.”

Yuuri smiled. “That's reassuring. Thank you.”

“You want continue with Rienzi or rather work on Faust? I would favour Faust. Try-outs come up.”

“Yes,” Yuuri mumbled, mentally peering at the discussion that was looming at the proverbial horizon, “They are.” He took a deep breath. “In all honesty, I am not really sure I should partake this time around.”

Viktor blinked at him. “What?”

Yuuri felt his face twist a little into something that hopefully conveyed that he actually did feel a little guilty about this. “Yeah. I am not sure about this, but... I don't think... I mean, I have one small solo and am working on a big one and it's...” He laughed nervously. “Well, in all honesty, it is a bit much right now.”

Viktor still looked at him and then shook his head. “You are... you are keeping your voice to yourself.” Again, he shook his head.

“That's not it at all!”

“What is it then?”

“I...” Yuuri sighed. “I'm trying my most to give both roles I have right now all I got. Even if one is only for one performance and then done with it. A third one – or even the preparation for getting it in the first place –, I don't know whether I could do it. And I miss you.” The last part he had not intended to say out loud. Didn't make it any less true though.

Viktor's face softened a little bit. “I miss you too. And I know time is stressful now. But you will do. Will manage.” His accent grew thicker and thicker with each word.

He didn't like this. He didn't like this at all.

Yuuri reached out and took his hand. “I'm not so sure about that right now. I... I want to be with you more often, but...”

Viktor bent down and pressed a kiss on his temple. “I know. I want too. I miss you too. But you should be out there. Should be famous and loved and celebrated and...” He sighed. “Do not write it off for good, yes? Please?”

How could Yuuri say no to this? How could he? He sighed. “Alright. I will partake in the try-out,” he finally said. “But only for a small role. No Faust, no Mephisto, none of the leading roles, yes? Would that be alright?”

“What about the opera after that?” Viktor asked.

“I will definitely try out for a major role for that, alright?”

Viktor sighed and then he nodded. “Alright.” After a moment’s pause he asked, “Shall we leave it at that for today or do you want to go over  _Faust_ a bit?”

Yuuri desperately wanted to not appear like he was lazy and would have liked to vote for a discussion of Faust, but truth was that bit by bit, bone-crushing exhaustion was creeping up on him again. And the fact that he missed Viktor far more than he had any right to, given the fact that he was seeing him every other day.

He opened his mouth to vote for some more work. Viktor looked at him sceptically and he sighed. “Yeah, alright. Let's call it a day.”

At least he got a kiss for this concession and they went down.

“I guess you are right, though,” Viktor admitted in turn as they entered the all-encompassing darkness of the tunnel, “too many roles at once means not one role good.” He reached out and his hand found Yuuri's. “But do not take too slow, yes? You can be so great if you do not take too slow.”

“I won't,” Yuuri said.

Viktor pulled him closer to himself for the rest of the walk and Yuuri let him, his feet growing ever heavier and dragging more or less behind him.

Dinner helped a little to perk up his spirits again.

“Say,” Viktor finally asked, “Yura is in a rather foul mood tonight, I have noticed.”

“Is he?” Yuuri mumbled.

“I guess it has something to do with you suddenly not liking him anymore. Is confusing him, I think.” Viktor glanced over the bowl with the potatoes at him. “I watched today. And days before I watched, too.”

“You also handed Mr. Feltsman the _Duetto buffo_ , didn't you?”, Yuuri mumbled.

“Did,” Viktor admitted. “Thought it might help sometime. Did help today, did it?”

Yuuri chuckled at the memory. “A little.”

“Good.” Viktor sighed. “I was surprised. You were cold to him. Did not think you could be cold to anybody.”

Yuuri's stomach churned. “Well, looks like you were wrong. Sorry.” He didn't even know whether he actually was sorry, but at least it sounded genuine.

“And you were mean to him, even. At least for your standards.”

This was veering into decidedly uncomfortable territory. Yuuri still needed to apologize for that bout of childishness. Which in itself was an even less appealing prospect.

“What is the matter, hm?” Viktor's hand reached out over the table, searching for Yuuri's fingers and finding them again. “Can tell me?”

Yuuri wondered. Viktor adored the boy, that much was obvious and was way too lenient with him. He would prove too lenient in this as well, he suspected.

Nonetheless, he drew a deep breath. “You have to admit, he is quite a brat.”

“He is, on occasion, yes,” Viktor answered. “But you have known it for a long time now.”

Yes, right, but he had not known it all back then. New knowledge had a tendency to skewer his perception.

Yuuri sighed. “Has he ever asked what happened?”

“With what? The eye or me living down here?”

“Both, actually.”

Viktor pressed his full, elegant lips into a thin line, before he answered, “No, he does not. He knows I got the scar and the bad eye in an argument, but he does not know it was about him. Is not important. He does not know why I pretended to have died as well and why I live down here. I do not know he would be interested. He is still hurt. As long as he does not ask , I do not plan telling him.”

Yuuri had several replies to that running through his mind, all at once.

Viktor was too good a person. Viktor was a goddamn martyr. Viktor was bloody stupid. Viktor was...

“Maybe he should know, whether he's asking or not,” was what he finally said. “Maybe then he wouldn't act in a way that causes upset stomachs left and right.”

Viktor regarded him with a mildly curious, mostly cool look.

Yuuri summoned all he got to not back down. “I mean, some truths are harsh and unpleasant, but these especially can do wonders to ones emotional maturity.”

“Maybe,” Viktor conceded. “Probably, even. But I am very sure you will find situations in your own life to test this thesis. No need to fret about something not connected to you.”

Coddling, was the word Yuuri decided was the best. Viktor was coddling Plisetsky and was paying a rather hefty price for it. Maybe he was even right about it. He knew Plisetsky longer and better than Yuuri did. So he could tell better, for sure.

That still didn't mean Viktor's approach was right. Or helpful. Or a generally good idea.

Yuuri bit back the comment. “Alright,” he sighed. “Sorry for the meddling.”

Viktor had not let go of his hand. “I know you mean well,” he said. “Nothing to forgive.”

Again, Yuuri nodded. Coddling and too good of a person, he concluded his current assessment of Viktor's character. He held Viktor’s hand. “Think I should go and sleep in my own bed , though,” he then said.

Viktor blinked at him incredulously. “What?”

Yuuri managed a smile. “If I stayed tonight I would only bring it up again and I don’t want to fight.”

“But…”

“Really.” Yuuri lifted his hand to his lips and pressed a small kiss on it.

“But I sleep better with you around!”

Yuuri couldn’t help but laugh a little at the admission. “Me too.”

Viktor’s hand tightened around his. “Then you could stay.”

“No, I really don’t think that’s a good idea tonight. Really.”

Viktor finally dropped it and they finished what little dinner they had left in silence.

Yuuri would have thought he would try to argue again once they were finished eating, but he just cleared away their tableware for later washing and then extinguished the lamps and candles before taking Yuuri’s hand and leading him into the tunnel.

They walked in silence and - their intertwined fingers aside - with some distance between them.

Even in the darkness Yuuri could feel that Viktor was actively avoiding to look his way. It left a painful pinch in his stomach. Was he being too difficult here?

As they reached the door , he tightened his grip around Viktor's hand and for a moment he seriously considered to stay the night after all.

Maybe Viktor sensed it. If yes, him pulling Yuuri closer was very much not surprising. Viktor wasn’t one to let a chance slide away.

Yuuri leaned into the embrace.

“You surely would not stay?”

Ah. There it was.

Yuuri drew in a deep breath. “We’d only go on arguing.”

“We could not mention it.”

“We could also keep the Elbe from flowing into the North Sea.”

“Then how about not talking at all?” Viktor nuzzled the skin behind Yuuri’s ear and Yuuri felt his resolve quickly melting.

He pulled Viktor down to a kiss, which might be a stupid idea, but he'd be damned if he didn't need this right now, just to know they were not too cross , and he knew Viktor needed the reassurance as well. He didn't want to leave with Viktor thinking Yuuri was angry with him. 

But when Viktor tried to deepen the kiss, press Yuuri against the wall and potentially get him rid of an article of clothing or two, he had to break it off.

“We tend to talk a lot,” he said, “That's what I love about us, but... not today. Alright?”

Viktor sighed deeply and unhappily. “Alright.” And then he unlocked the door. “See you day after tomorrow.”

“See you. Sleep tight.” And with that Yuuri slipped out.

 

Rehearsal went on as usual the next morning, with Yuuri working hard during chorus rehearsal and Plisetsky hanging around in the backstage area.

Once again he looked terribly exhausted, but that didn't stop him from using the short break between chorus rehearsal and  _Rienzi_ to stomp over to Yuuri.

Oh dear. Yuuri sighed. Well then, time for another round of Plisetsky being Plisetsky. Hopefully though, Yuuri had a chance to open his own mouth before that.

Plisetsky looked him up and down and – very surprisingly – didn't say anything, even though he looked like he very much wanted to.

“Well...” Yuuri cleared his throat. “I think... sorry.”

Plisetsky's brow furrowed and he cocked his head. “What?”

“Sorry for the way I behaved yesterday. And the time before. I shouldn't have.”

Plisetsky chewed on his lip. “Alright. Uhm. Yes. And... sorry too. For pissing you off.”

Now it was Yuuri's turn to blink and ask, “What?” followed by, “Why?”

Plisetsky blew up his cheeks. “Well... it's you, so there's a reason for you to be pissed at me and it's probably a good one. I mean, you're you.”

Was that supposed to sound like some sort of praise? Yuuri almost got the feeling.

“So, I've probably done something to piss you off. Or maybe not, maybe it's just that I'm the way I am.”

So much self-awareness was almost too much for Yuuri to bear.

“In any case, I am sorry, I will try to...”

“No, no, it's not you.” Yuuri shook his head. “I... I told you yesterday, right? It's probably the stress.” He laughed ruefully. “Maybe I'm really not cut out for this.”

Plisetsky's face twitched. Then he shook his head. “Nah. You're fine. Really. You – you're good, so – sorry for that too. You're good.”

“Oh.” Yuuri's ears grew warm. “Uh. Thank you. And... we're good?”

“We're good,” Plisetsky agreed.

“Good.”

There was a moment of silence between them before Plisetsky sighed, “Viktor's sulking , by the way.”

“He...” Yuuri blinked and then shook his head. “He's sulking.”

“Yeah, because you left yesterday, even though he tried pretty hard to make you stay.”

Yuuri couldn't help but chuckle at this. “To be fair, he did his best.”

“Said you said it was better if you slept at your own place last night.” Plisetsky sighed. “If I was the reason, I'm sorry and – don't do it.”

Again, Yuuri blinked and then, again, asked, “What?”

“Don't fight. Don't fight because of me, don't fight, period. Yes? Don't fight, I...” He stopped dead in his tracks and quickly turned his face away.

Yuuri watched his shoulders rise and fall. “Good thing we didn't fight , then. Wouldn't have, I guess. Arguments are not fights, but I don't like them, even less when they are pretty much pointless.” He sighed. “And again, I shouldn't have let out my mess on you. Sorry.”

Plisetsky shrugged. “You already apologized. We're good.” Then he looked at him again. “Come. Let's sing.”

Yuuri smiled at that. “Alright.”

The rehearsal for  _Rienzi_ started soon afterwards and Mr. Feltsman insisted on them going over the first act again after it had went so terribly wrong yesterday.

It went well enough today, from Plisetsky singing Adriano passionately pledging himself to protect the innocent to them arguing about a proper course of action and Rienzi finally persuading Adriano to his side.

“Better!” Mr. Feltsman finally declared as the scene had ended. “Again from _Adriano! Höre mich, noch ein Wort_.”

“Was something wrong?” Plisetsky asked.

Mr. Feltsman shot him a look.

“What, if it was, better tell us now so we can work on it right away.”

Mr. Feltsman kept his glare at the boy even and finally Plisetsky sighed. “Fine, fine, if you insist.”

“Do. Sing. Georgi!”

Georgi saluted and worked the piano keys.

Yuuri waited until the part of the music where Adriano was turning away to leave and then called out, “ Adriano! Hör mich, noch ein Wort! Nicht zum Verderben deines Standes ersann mein Geist den kühnen Plan; nur das Gesetz will ich erschaffen, dem Volk wie Edle untertan. Kannst du mich tadeln, wenn aus Räubern zu wahrhaft Edlen ich euch mache, zu Schützern und zu festen Säulen des Staates und der guten Sache?”

Plisetsky came to a halt as Yuuri's Rienzi explained his reasoning and his motivation and Yuuri raised a hand, reaching out to him.

Plisetsky turned around.  “ Ich bin der Erste, das Gesetz getreu zu üben und zu schirmen, doch an das Ziel der stolzen Wünsche gelangst du nur durch blut'ge Bahn, durch eines feigen Pöbels Wut, durch meiner Brüder, meines Vaters Blut!”

“Ha! Good! Fine! Good! Good scene!”

They blinked downwards to Mr. Feltsman who was outright grinning.

Yuuri fought the urge to pinch himself. Mr. Feltsman was satisfied with them.

“You put something in his tea this morning?” he asked softly.

Plisetsky shook his head.

“Like that! Yesterday!” Mr Feltsman called up to them. “Why not like that yesterday?”

Plisetsky sighed a long, drawn out “Ugh...” and continued, “here comes the sermon.”

“You fight? If you fight, not on stage! Fight off-stage, leave fights there! On stage you sing! You hear me?”

“Yes!” Plisetsky called down, rolling his eyes.

“Don't you roll your eyes on me!”

The boy flushed. “Sorry!”

“Katsuki, you hear me?!”

Yuuri flinched. Damn. “Uh. Yes! Yes, sir!”

“Is only funny when Georgi does it,” Mr. Feltsman grumbled. Then, having his point gotten across, he waved with his hands. “Go on! Sara! Duet!”

Yuuri listened to them spinning a soft, fine thread of affection connecting them, despite any terror in their past that connected their families. It should be a sweet scene and Sara could sing her lines with as much gentleness and heartfelt adoration as Plisetsky.

The repetition that ran through it , though , soured the sweetness a little. Yuuri really couldn't feel any of the affection that was supposed to grow between Irene and Adriano. Or maybe that was because Sara, as lovestruck as she sounded, acted more like an affectionate older sister to Plisetsky rather than a lover.

The scene ended with fanfare and trumpet sounds, replaced for now by Georgi smashing some random piano keys.

And finally the last scene for the first act, with Rienzi declaring the Roman people to be free. They, led by Cecco de Vecchio , wished to declare Rienzi their king. 

“Nicht also! Frei wollt' ich euch haben!” Yuuri called as Rienzi refused the royal title. “Die heil'ge Kirche herrsche hier, Gesetze gebe ein Senat. Doch wählet ihr zum Schützer mich der Rechte, die dem Volk erkannt, so blickt auf eure Ahnen,” he elaborated how this new, free Roman society, ruled by a senate and the Church, should work, “und nennt mich euren Volkstribun.” This was the last point. Of course, Rienzi would not be king. But a tribune, in ancient Roman tradition, and approved by the people, of course he would do that.

Yuuri liked him less and less. Julius Caesar had done something similar like that during the saturnalia before his death. People had – in jest – demanded him to be their king and he had refused it. Also, he had been dictator at that time.

No wonder he had been stabbed shortly after. And no wonder Rienzi would be destroyed in an equally tragically gory fashion.

It was finally over.

Mr. Feltsman clapped in his hands. “Act two tomorrow. Make sure you know parts!”

With that it was over.

Sara and Plisetsky came sauntered over and Sara grinned. “All hail the king!”

“Oh yes, please!” Yuuri reached out his hand. “Where's my crown, where's my throne, now let's see who will be in my council.”

“You're supposed to refuse it,” Plisetsky pointed out.

“Absolute power? Or even any power at all. Riches? Lands? Why refuse?” Yuuri asked.

Sara laughed. “Maybe because you see how Rienzi ends up for taking it.”

“He ends up the way he does because he's a manipulative bastard and life finally catches up with him. Had he accepted kingship, Adriano would turn away from him, probably trying to kill him, but if he did it at that point of the story, people would protect their new king and the murder attempt would probably cement Rienzi's popularity with them.” Yuuri shrugged. “That he acts like a king without taking the title, however, ends up with him appearing to have overreached himself.”

Sara made a face. “Ah, you are really no fun with this.”

Yuuri laughed. “Not with my medieval Italian history, no.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever you find so interesting there.” Then she spotted something and with a quick “Bye!” she was off.

Turning around Yuuri saw, unsurprisingly, Mila standing in the wings, waiting for her.

Next to him Plisetsky shook his head. “One of these days they will attract the attention of the police or something and need to marry someone real quick to get off the hook.”

“Sure? They could talk their way out of anything.”

“Or in Mila's case, she'll probably just grab a knife and stab her way free.”

Yuuri looked at Mila's red-headed back. “Sure?” he asked, “She doesn't seem like the stab-happy sort of woman.”

“All an act,” Plisetsky explained. “She's a redhead, don't ever expect her to be actually patient or reasonable and I _know_ she knows how to at least appear like she knows how to handle a knife outside a kitchen.”

Yuuri took his time to detangle that sentence. “Got on her bad side once?”

Plisetsky snorted. “I'm not stupid. Nah. Was out with her once and it was late and people on the street were drunk and misbehaved. Mila got them in check and me home safely and then herself too.”

Yuuri shook his head. “Women are scary.” He then cleared his throat. “Speaking of being out late, me and some other chorus guys are grabbing dinner tonight. Nothing fancy, but if you want to join us, I'm pretty sure they'd like to have you.”

“Uh.” Plisetsky blinked. And then he shook his head. “Well, sounds good, thank you.”

Oh great. That was great. Hopefully a chance to keep Plisetsky somewhat away from any meetings with revolutionary groups. As well as an apology again.

“But not today, sorry.”

“Oh. Something else already?”

“Yep.”

“Ah.” Yuuri nodded. Too late. “Too bad.”

“Yep. Too bad.”

 

The next day found the chorus rehearsing both  _Rienzi_ ,  _Undine_ and the first few bits of Spohr's  _Faust_ and Mr. Feltsman listening to them with crossed arms and barbed remarks.

Then, finally he clapped in his hands. From the corners of his eyes Yuuri could see Plisetsky, Sara and several other  _Rienzi_ -soloists waiting in the wings. “Done for today! Listen now!”

They listened, standing still and looking at him.

Mr. Feltsman let his gaze wander. Then, satisfied with the quiet, tense attention he had gotten for himself, he nodded. “Two things. Three days, then dress rehearsals for  _Rienzi_ . To avoid commotion, use time now to go to costume department to get your costumes out and ready so Lena will only have to hand them to you. Is not a new production, so she will not have to sew everything from scratch.” He nodded to himself. “Other thing,” he then continued, “Try-out for some solo roles in  _Faust_ . I will hang complete list at the board. Look and think if you want partake. Try-out is in a week. Look forward to it.” Again he nodded. “Is all. Good day.”

They chatted together for a while until the singers who were not soloists in neither  _Rienzi_ nor  _Undine_ had to leave and rehearsals commenced.

Afterwards , his work day was over; no performance tonight and thankfully so. He needed an occasional short work day. For today all that was required of him was to go down to Viktor, have his lessons, eat and then at least try to relax, which Viktor would be more than happy to help him, Yuuri was sure.

After lesson and a lunch consisting of pie of minced mead and mashed potatoes (which tasted less revolting than it looked) and then, finally, something like peace with them cleaning up and then all that was demanded of them was to finally, finally,  _finally_ reclining on the chaise lounge.

“So, try-outs are announced,” Viktor commented, having himself wrapped pretty much completely around Yuuri.

Yuuri lowered the book he had been reading in silence. Until now Viktor had been dozing. “What?”

“It just occurred to me.”

“It woke you from your slumber,” Yuuri pointed out.

“I wasn't really sleeping, it does not take much to wake me up from this.”

Yuuri sighed. “Yes, Mr. Feltsman announced it today. You heard it, why are you asking?”

Viktor sighed and laced his fingers with Yuuri's. “You are partaking, yes? You said so.”

Something in Yuuri balked at that. “We talked about that. Yes.”

Viktor, he felt, was tensing around him.

“Sorry.” He sighed. “Yes, I will partake.”

“You do not sound like you want to,” Viktor said. “Not at all.”

“Well...” Yuuri sighed. “To be honest, I still don't know. Whether I want a role in this. Or whether I even want to partake. You want me, though.”

“Very much so and you know why.” Viktor lifted Yuuri's hand to his lips. “It would be a shame to let a chance go by. Even a small solo like you want could garner you more recognition. What would be wrong about that?”

“Nothing, just...” Yuuri's stomach felt like seizing up. “I...” His throat tightened, even that little sound took far too much effort to squeeze out.

Viktor was still holding him, his body at once a welcome, warm presence and suffocating, too much, too heavy, too...

“Yuuri, tell me.”

“No!” The word, very softly spoken, very thin and weak took him more effort than singing through all of Rienzi's arias back to back. And by God, he really, really hadn't wanted to say it.

Viktor around him tensed up.

Then he carefully unwrapped himself from Yuuri, pushing back, sitting up, trailing his hands over Yuuri's arms and placing them on his shoulders as he sat next to Yuuri, rather than behind him. “Or do not tell me, if you do not wish to,” he then said and Yuuri never had loved him more than right now. He also wanted to cry, but these two things were mostly unrelated.

“I want to,” he then mumbled. The tightness in his throat was still there. “Just... I spent my life being told what to do and following this. I am told to leave Italy and go to Dresden, so I pack my things and end up here. As latest example. It kind of was always like this.”

“I am sure it was in your best interest,” Viktor said.

“Me too. It was. And I'm grateful. But... I...” He shrugged, helplessly. Words were really hard all of a sudden. “Recently my skin is starting to crawl at that and...” There was something tapping at the inside of his skull at his words, something he needed to verbalize to get through it, but to verbalize he needed to grasp it...

Damn.

Viktor's hands flattened against his shoulder blades. “It is alright.”

“I don't know. I don't feel like it is.” Yuuri chewed on his lip and then, slowly, the words came to him. “You know I am Japanese, right?”

“I could not help but notice,” Viktor replied.

“And you never wondered how a Japanese man got to Italy? Or out of Japan in the first place.”

“I did wonder. But I did not want to pry.”

Yuuri found something to hold on there and he laughed. “We are both too damn considerate of each other for our own good.”

“I am not sure. I prefer to be considerate. And I am glad you are considerate.”

“Even if it means not talking about important things?”

Viktor was considerate and considered the question before answering, “Maybe then we indeed should consider not to be considerate for a moment. It would be more considerate in the long run.”

Yuuri smiled. “Probably.”

“So do you want me to ask?”

“I think...” Yuuri chewed on his bottom lip. “I think I would not mind.”

“How did it happen, then?” 

And already Yuuri started to regret this. But he had started it. Now he had to go through with it. Anything else would have been unfair to Viktor. So he smiled. “Celestino found me in Singapore and bought me when I was about three.”

“Oh.” That was all Viktor said and Yuuri felt his hands smoothing over his back. Also he could almost hear how Viktor was starting to re-evaluate his so-far high opinion of a man who turned out to have bought children on a slave market.

“He never wanted me to find out,” he said quickly. “And he never treated me like... like that.”

Viktor relaxed somewhat against him. “From what you tell me, he does sound more like a father to me than anything else.”

“For all intents and purposes he is.” The tightness around his chest was easing. Talking had been a good idea after all. Although he wondered whether he would have had such an easy time if Viktor had been less gentle about it. Probably not. “Just... the way he adopted me is not entirely conventional. Or maybe it is, given the circumstances. If he wanted to get me, he had to pay for me. Whatever the reason was he wanted to take a Japanese toddler with him. Or any toddler at all.”

“Who knows. I never understood people who go to slave markets at all, be it a role on stage or a real life patron talking about their trip to God knows where.”

Yuuri felt at ease enough to lean against Viktor as he mumbled, “Who knows. I don't care. I'm just grateful it wasn't anyone else.” It was a deliberate echo of Viktor's own words and it had the intended effect of easing him up.

“Where does that leave us now, though?” Viktor asked.

“Well, I found out at some point. I think I was five or six – it was before we settled down in Florence for a while. People said something and it stuck with me and later I asked him what a slave was and why people called me that.”

He heard Viktor suck in a breath.

“He's not happy about it, but the idea that I am property kind of stuck with me. I pretty much always did as I was told because of that and now I'm...” He sighed. “For a while now it...”

“has made your skin crawl,” Viktor repeated his words to him and Yuuri nodded.

“No idea why. Celestino for a long time decided what was best for me and I followed directions, but... he's not around anymore and in one of his letters he said he should have let me make my own decisions sooner, so...” He sighed. “Damn.” By now he had given up on counting how often he had used foul language in the last half hour or so.

“Do you want to be in the _Faust_?” Viktor finally asked.

“I don't know. “ Yuuri sighed. “I know you want me to and to be honest, that's why I'm so conflicted about it – you're right, but you're telling me what I should do and... I haven't thought about it.”

Viktor ran a hand over Yuuri's arm. “What do you want, love?”

Again Yuuri could only sigh and after a moment's deliberate silence he mumbled, “I honestly don't know – aside from you.” He felt his ears grow warmer as he spoke the words. “About anything else – I'd need to think about anything else.”

Viktor's voice was strangely raw when he mumbled, “This is the sweetest thing anyone ever told me.” But maybe Yuuri's ears were playing a trick on him.

For a while Viktor said nothing and Yuuri was starting to think that maybe, just maybe he had fallen asleep.

“If you were not a good singer,” he then finally asked, “What would you have done then?”

“Hm?”

“When you are so young it is hard to tell how the voice will turn out, even with training from early on. I do not think he bought you for some singing potential he saw in you. If your voice had been too weak, what would you have done?”

“I don't know. Maybe learning an instrument. Really learn it. Celestino insisted I learn piano and I like it, but I'm nothing special with that. I put enough effort into these lessons to become decent and to accompany a lady in her salon singing to her guests, but that's it.” Yuuri shrugged. “Or maybe I would have developed more of a knack for dancing than I have. If it hadn't been singing, we would have found something else for me to dedicate myself to.”

“That sounds a bit cold.”

Maybe it was cold and maybe more than just a bit. But it was true and another truth didn't change that fact.

“I love singing,” Yuuri admitted, “I really love it and I can't imagine doing anything else right now. But this love isn't the reason I started singing. It's something that has grown out of working hard, getting reasonably good, learning and evolving. And if it hadn't been singing, I would have loved something else just as dearly. Art is not a living, breathing person, after all.”

Viktor chuckled. It still sounded raw. “You seem to like saying things that surprise and touch me today.”

“Not only today.” His own voice was a whisper now. His limbs were heavy. This had been so draining, so terribly exhausting. He leaned back, his shoulders softly meeting the cushioning of the chaise-lounge. “I like surprising you, in fact. I like it a lot.”

 

He actually managed to sleep a little, exhaustedly nodding off in the crook of Viktor's arm. When he woke up in the late afternoon , he felt somewhat refreshed but still groggy enough that he could have easily just gone back to sleep. Not that Viktor would have let him.

“Go home, yes?” he whispered, gently shaking Yuuri until he was not falling asleep the very second he was somewhat awake anymore. “I would love to have you stay, but I will work now and when I compose and talk through lines of dialogue, you cannot sleep properly.”

“Hm. Can sleep pretty well.”

Viktor chuckled and shook him again. “Not when I start cursing in Russian because the melody won't sound like I hear it in my head. Go home, yes?”

“You bring me up?”

“Of course.”

The walk did nothing to wake Yuuri up even the slightest; God, he would probably just fall into bed and snore away the remainder of the day and the night. It probably would do wonders for him being awake and alert tomorrow.

But still. He spent so little actual time with Viktor right now and he wanted to be with him so badly that it almost hurt on a physical level.

“Don't wanna go,” he mumbled.

“Day before tomorrow you desperately wanted to leave despite my pleading,” Viktor sighed and unlocked the door. “What has happened?”

“We're reasonable at different times, that's what's happening,” Yuuri grumbled.

“Get home safely, yes?”

“Yes.” Yuuri sighed and slipped out, the first instances of afternoon daylight floating in and biting in his eyes already. How was he supposed to get home?

He dragged his feet upstairs and then through the house to the backstage area and hopefully soon to the exit and through the streets and then to the boarding house, upstairs and into bed. He could do with a good dose of sleep, really.

There was noise in the house. Unsurprisingly preparations for tonight's performance were already running, stagehands busy preparing props and backgrounds and – talking to Plisetsky?

Yuuri blinked. Indeed, one of the men – tall, dark hair, bronzen complexion and a square, stern face that spelled no-nonsense – was pausing to converse to a very familiar, fair-headed shape about God knew what.

And Plisetsky was laughing with him, sharing in on a joke.

It was adorable.

And maybe Viktor had been wrong after all. Maybe the cause for Plisetsky's tiredness was, after all, a lover, or at least a lover-to-be?

Plisetsky now turned around and waved him goodbye and they walked off in different directions.

And of course he spotted Yuuri and was now sauntering over to him. “Heading home already?”

“Viktor wants to compose, I want to sleep,” Yuuri yawned. “And he insists on my love for sleep being bigger than my love for him, which is not true.”

“Urgh, spare me the details, please.” But Plisetsky's voice had a lot less barbs than usual when he complained. He was smiling.

Yuuri nodded in the direction the man had disappeared. “Friend of yours?”

The once discarded theory of a lover being the cause for Plisetsky's mood lately gained new foothold. Yuuri watched in amusement how the boy's ears turned slightly red.

He nodded. “Yes. Friend. Yes.”

“Ah. Nice.”

“Yeah, I guess you're making me social or something. Kinda disgusting, honestly.” Plisetsky didn't sound disgusted, not at all.

Yuuri wondered whether he should have a look at that man, but then again he was not Plisetsky's father (thank goodness) and he surely would not stick his nose into that business.

“You look like a chandelier hit you or something.”

“Hm, feels about right,” Yuuri admitted. “If you replace the chandelier with existential questions, that is.”

“Oh.” Plisetsky nodded. “Sucks. I guess. Example?”

“Hm.” Yuuri stifled a yawn. “Like... you ever thought about what you want out of life? In general?”

Plisetsky shrugged. “Don't need to, I know already.”

“What would that be?”

Plisetsky considered him with a long look. “No dependencies. And right now for you to get to bed, you're creepy when you're tired.”

Yuuri couldn't help but laugh at that assessment. “Alright, I'll be going then. See you tomorrow.”

And then he was out in the heat, the blaring sun and in the streets and soon, soon at the boarding house.

Mrs. Hauberer cocked her head at his sight and clucked her tongue but Yuuri just shot her a somewhat rueful smile before heading upstairs.

“So you're having breakfast tomorrow?” she called after him and he nodded. Hopefully she would have seen anyways. And then, finally, thankfully, blissfully he laid down in his bed and closed his eyes.

Probably he would have slept even better with Viktor at his side, but it couldn't be helped now. He would take what he could get. He always did.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no! Yuuri can be bitchy if he chooses to!  
> And in case you want to know how I imagine the Cat's duet of the two Yu(u)ris to go down... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_4su9_GJNMA ... I think this has you covered. (my fur demom reacts rather srtongly to me singing it.
> 
> In other news - in Germany we had election day today for our parliament. I went, of course. Good news is - the percentage of eligible people who actually DID vote was apparently rather high. Or at least higher than usual.  
> The bad news...  
> I don't want to get political on here. This is for funsies and amusement. But considering the timeframe of the setting, the story in itself is inherently political...  
> The established REALLY FAR RIGHT party didn't even run for parliament. Another party - one that is arguably even worse - however did. And got a rather large percentage of seats and basically, it's not as bad as Trump (as of now) but the mere fact that they got any votes at all is disgusting, considering the last 100 years of German history.  
> In short, it is not an entirely lost situation. But I fear things are about to get bad. Like, really bad. (I also have hope. This party now will have to prove they have an actual idea of how a country is to be run. Hopefully, this means they will prove themselves to be the incompetents they are and won't be elected again.)  
> In any case, I'm pretty much crying right now and when I'm not crying me and a friend are drinking to bear this (both the beer and the wine are actually way too good for this context)  
> I'll be better tomorrow. I'll be done with crying and continue fighting. When I feel like crying again I'll cry and then I'll go on. This is far from over and this world is far from lost.  
> Until then I'll continue writing and updating both to vent and to cheer myself (and hopefully you) up.
> 
> And the next set of end notes will be a lot more cheerful.  
> Thank you all so much. Let's get through this.  
> Your's  
> Sibi


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! You probably noticed that the 10th-of-the-month-update was missing and I'm so sorry, but... well, me and my beta-reader are busy preparing for NaNo, so she cut her work load down to one chapter per month for now. You'll have another chapter in November and maybe we'll be back to our bi-weekly schedule by January! (whohoo! ... on the upside this means that we'll not be done with it too soon.)  
>  My handle at the platform is siberianchan (what else?) so if you got something to work on and wanna chat me up about it – do so! Also check out my tumblr and maybe my instagram for me fangirling, being a feminist, updating about my cat and all sorts of stuff. I am looking forward to all of you!

Chapter 17

 

_Rienzi_ was coming closer and closer, dress rehearsals running so smoothly that they were starting to joke about how the performance would surely go up in flames. One or two of them were not joking, especially not when it transpired who would probably be their audience. Unlike the performance, the dress rehearsal was open for their patrons to visit and watch and their patrons were the main source of gossip concerning their audience.

The King would attend of course and his wife of course as well. Guests from the kingdom of Bavaria, too, the former king Ludwig I. and his mistress, rumours said.

Plisetsky rolled his eyes when he heard that. “Kings are idiots,” he declared. “This one's the best example. Brings the woman who nailed his coffin shut.”

The affair had been the alleged cause for major unrest in Bavaria; Yuuri had only caught snippets of it when he had travelled through, but it had been still fresh in the public's mind. Yuuri had been in Bavaria in early April. On the 16th of March the king had abdicated after his affair with a dancer had caused both a scandal and him behaving in a rather un-kingly manner. This of course had only fanned the revolutionary flames until Ludwig had to give up the throne in order to save the monarchy and potentially his own skin.

In light of this it was indeed not the wisest idea to parade said mistress around, but Yuuri was in no position to advise a king on what and what not to do and thus kept his mouth shut.

“Well, let's just hope Dresden people have a little more sense for romance than the Bavarians and leave the poor man alone,” Free Lady Poellchau declared, empathetically waving her fan, despite the air being delightfully cool inside the theatre. They all delighted in it on a day as oppressive as this one.

“I don't care much about that,” Phichit shrugged, “I won't be here when the Saxonian king has his family over and for once I am glad about this business trip.”

Yuuri shook his head. “For weeks you have been complaining and as soon as royalty comes to town you are actually glad to be gone?”

“Not for the royalty themselves, but they tend to bring trouble with them these days. I don't like trouble,” Phichit explained. “I like to do my sketches in peace, thank you very much.”

“Could be that they are discussing support for each other in case things remain as unstable as they are now,” Andreas mused. “Royalty is pretty much always related one way or another, right?”

“Probably, I think Ludwig's son is married to a Saxonian princess?” the Free Lady Poellchau mused, eyeing Andreas with some interest. “Surely they would like to spend time together in these troubled times?”

“Family visits mean nothing,” Mrs. Eleonora commented. “I had a great-grand-aunt. Vicious old bat, terrible person. Our whole family despised her. My mother wished to stab her. My husband wondered if she had enough soul in her for a photograph to steal a portion of it. The feelings were mutual, though. She hated us all as much as we hated her. I suppose I was her favourite person to spit on, I have never found out why. Nonetheless, when she died and was finally buried, she left me an inheritance so nice one could have thought I was her most beloved.” She shrugged. “Of course I would have been rather silly to refuse a lovely little estate in the countryside, so now I have a refuge out there in sweet little Zabeltitz. Sympathies don't mean anything. The only important thing is what is written in paper and politics. I suppose the visit is in fact about politics, in which case it still begs the question why Ludwig of Wittelsbach would bring his mistress with him.”

“Maybe he won't,” Johannes said. “Sometimes, Lady Poellchau, men _can_ think with logic and reason.”

“I have yet to meet one who wouldn't disprove your claim, my dear.” She turned to Phichit. “But don't you think you should be a little more worried? What if you come back and everything has turned upside down in your absence?”

“I would be rather inconvenienced if the theatre had burned down in my absence, I admit,” Phichit shrugged, “anything else – eh. As long as people are buying exotic spices I think I will do just fine.”

“I think there is a word for this,” the Free Lady Poellchau sighed, “I don't know...”

“Pragmatic?” Phichit suggested.

“I was going for unpatriotic, but if you insist...”

“Why would you call me unpatriotic, simply because I do not overly concern myself with the matters of a country I do not call my own? Ask me about how I feel about Siam and how some countries are trying to set up shop there as if they have any right. I can tell you a lot about that, but it does not concern you and you have no power to change anything, so I don't demand your interest or attention. Please don't demand mine on German matters.”

Mrs. Eleonora clucked her tongue at this.

Phichit proceeded to ignore it and turned to Yuuri. “Say, our engagement for dinner is still standing, yes?”

 

Their engagement was, in fact, still standing and Viktor took amusement in helping Yuuri out of his corset later that evening. “I think lacing you up might be fun sometime,” he chuckled as he loosened the strings enough for Yuuri to open the planchet without too much fiddling and cursing.

“Please, no, you know how my language deteriorates when I am lacing myself up. No need for you to be the reason for that.”

Viktor shrugged. “I think it would be worth it and you would love it.”

Yuuri snorted. “You keep believing that, dear.” Being free he now went to his vanity and started to remove the stage make-up with quick, energetic rubs of a wet cloth.

Viktor meanwhile stepped behind him, carefully running a hand over his neck. “You are looking forward to dinner with your patron?”

“It means good food, that is always something to look forward to,” Yuuri chuckled. His skin was reddened from the harsh treatment, but at least the make-up was gone. He carefully dabbed a drop of lavender oil on the worst spots and spread it until the slightly slick feeling was gone and his skin was as pale and un-red as ever.

Viktor inhaled deeply. “Hm. Love that smell.”

“I know.” Yuuri turned around, looking up at Viktor and smiling. “Guess why I'm using it.” Phichit would be here any moment to pick him up. But he still had a moment time, right?

Viktor leaned in for a kiss, Yuuri met him, wrapped his arms around his neck – and it nocked.

“Yuuri? Are you ready?”

They broke apart and Viktor sighed. “Well. Have fun.” He pressed another short kiss on Yuuri's lips and then he was gone.

“Yuuri?” Phichit asked on the other side of the door, “are you alright?”

“Oh, yes! Uh...” Glancing around to make sure Viktor was really gone Yuuri ushered to the door and opened it. “Sorry. Just a moment, yes?”

“Too early, huh?” Phichit mused. “Sorry, but your company seemed a lot more appealing to me than the middle-aged wife of a wealthy grocer who knows as much about either spices or art as I know about Ancient Greece.”

“Cursory level then,” Yuuri nodded. “Yes, they can be annoying. Sorry I can't offer you anything...”

“That's quite alright, we are going out to eat after all.” Phichit smiled and then looked at him. Or rather, he tried not to stare.

Yuuri looked down on himself and realized that he was still only half-dressed in an under shirt and his long-johns. “I'll be ready in a minute.” He quickly walked over to the small closet and opened the door, using it as a makeshift screen as much as he could, hanging up his costume and grabbing his evening suit. When he glanced back to Phichit, his guest was looking anywhere else but in his direction.

Well, at least he was not being stared at anymore, that was good. On the other hand, it was decidedly awkward to get dressed in a room with someone who had to put effort into not staring. Yuuri kind of missed the communal dressing room for the chorus singers now.

“Where are we going anyways?” he asked as he finished buttoning his collar to the shirt and shrugged on his waistcoat. Walking over to the vanity, he grabbed his cravat and carefully wrapped it around his neck, folding and tying it.

“I found a nice place with Polish kitchen.”

Then shoes and his overcoat, a last run through his hair with the comb.

“Alright.” He turned around. “Think you can show yourself with me or do I need a burlap sack to hide in?”

Phichit clucked his tongue. “Let's be honest, you would make a burlap sack look fantastic.”

Yuuri sincerely doubted that, but the sentiment was sweet nonetheless and he smiled as they left his dressing room.

Phichit had picked a nice little place that indeed served Polish food, simple fare compared to what Phichit treated him occasionally to. And oh, it was just the more delicious for this change, for this variety. Not that Yuuri minded the fancier and finer foods, not at all.

The wine was German, though; apparently not even the Polish owners of the place trusted their country to produce something decent. Yuuri, however, suspected that it could hardly be worse than German wine.

For now, however, he took great enjoyment in the  _Zupa ogórkowa_ , a tangy, clear cucumber soup. It made him a bit thirsty, though, which in turn caused the wine to taste almost good.

Phichit ate his own soup with appetite and obvious enjoyment of yet another bit of foreign cuisine, but his gaze was flitting about, checking on how secluded they were in the nice little niche he had booked them.

“You're not German either,” he finally sighed.

“Obviously,” Yuuri answered.

“That's not what I mean. You grew up in Italy. If anything you will consider yourself more Milanese than anything.”

“Hm. I lived there for twelve years.”

Phichit nodded. “Right, right, so you will probably understand better than anyone else – I didn't really think about it before today. Is it really that bad of me to be mostly indifferent to how the politics of the Saxonian kingdom are developing?”

Yuuri gazed into his soup and then out of their niche into the other parts of the room. “If you cared, it would be noble, yes,” he finally said.

Phichit looked somewhat crestfallen at that.

“But I personally do not begrudge you for considering other things  more important than this.” He sighed and took a small sip. The soup really could have done well with a little less salt. “I don’t pay too much attention to it either. If I did I probably would not stop worrying until I one day will leave this place.”

“Are you having a plan already?” Phichit asked.

“Not yet, not really.” A spoonful of soup. “But I don’t think I can stay here forever. I try not to pay attention to what is happening, but I still catch some news.” The talk he had had with Viktor a while ago came back to his mind. “If things continue to calm down, I might be alright. If not...” He took a sip of wine. “In a German nation, united by their language, culture and heritage – I don't know whether there would be room for foreigners like me.”

“I believe many Jews share your worries,” Phichit sighed.

“Might be. I know Mr. Feltsman is worried,” Yuuri admitted. “Yuri Plisetsky should be worried, but isn't because he assumes a new German Nation will simply accept him as one of her own. And maybe he is right, but...” He shrugged and took another sip. As it turned out German wine could kind of grow in him when he had had a glass or two of it, its harsh, dry taste offering refreshment to his mind when he was searching for German words. “But to be blunt, I am too preoccupied with my own survival to worry otherwise about these developments.” Another sip. “With that perspective, I only can agree and maybe even commend your stand.”

Phichit had begun to smile during Yuuri's little speech. “Thank you. It means a lot to me that you think like that. It really does.” He took yet another sip of wine, a good deal larger than Yuuri had taken before.

They had finished the soup and the second course came, containing of lamb, stewed potatoes and a very thick, creamy sauce that was referred to as  _kren_ . Yuuri was very sure he had had this sauce before in several Saxonian dishes (all incorporating potatoes as well) and he liked it playing off of the stern taste of the mutton.

This main course – simple fare, probably not noblemen's food, but delicious nonetheless – passed by with Phichit remaining oddly silent, fiddling with his cutlery.

It took him until dessert came, a sweet pudding served in a shallow dish and garnished with candied fruit, to speak his mind.

“I actually wanted to talk with you about something else as well.”

A surprised “Oh?” was the only thing Yuuri managed to vocalize.

“Yes, well...” He sighed and then ran a finger over the rim of his freshly refilled glass. “I would have kept silent of this matter, but for the fact that I do think your tastes run in the more masculine direction?”

Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no.

Nonetheless the only word Yuuri managed to wheeze out was a soft, “Yes.”

Phichit breathed out. “Only men or women as well?

Yuuri could only shrug at that. “I was rarely ever in love. Certainly not often enough to judge properly where my tastes run. None of them were women, though, so that might be a hint.”

“Oh.” Phichit let out another breath and this time it was a little shakier and a lot heavier with relief. He was playing with fire here and he knew it, Yuuri realized. So it had to be important that he was bringing it up. This was not good.

“So the girl your friends claim you are seeing...”

“Doesn't exist,” Yuuri confirmed.

Phichit smiled. “Don't take this the wrong way, but I guessed that much.”

This was most definitely not good.

“I would not have asked if I did not have something to talk about. And I wouldn't talk about this if I did not have some reason for hope and... I think I've been skirting around this for long enough.” He took a deep breath. “I don't know whether I simply fall in love easily or whether you are someone that is very easy to love – which is true in any case – but fact is that I have been in love for quite a while now.”

Oh damn. Yuuri had desperately hoped that Phichit would not talk about it. It would have made dealing with him a good deal less awkward.

“And – I think in your circles it is not terribly uncommon for artists and their sponsors to have relations that go beyond a simple sponsorship.”

Well, Viktor had warned him about that. At the very least, Yuuri supposed, Phichit was not trying to hold the sponsorship over his head. At least not on purpose, but it turned out Viktor was right. As soon as money entered the discussion equality and free choice somewhat left it.

Phichit was looking at him anxiously.

Yuuri had to answer. “Why...” He cleared his throat. “Why are you bringing this up now?”

“I think it's a good time. I will be leaving tomorrow and I did not want to depart without conveying my feelings to you. So if you can't accept my proposal I have a few weeks to collect myself again. Potentially by moping for a few days and then actively trying to move on. If you accepted, I would be more motivated to wrap up any business as quickly as possible and return here.”

Yuuri wanted to say something but that would have been rude. Phichit had prepared that little speech in advance and he should have the opportunity to deliver it in full. Also this gave Yuuri a little more time before he had to answer.

Phichit took a small sip of wine. “And in case you cannot answer right away my absence would give you time to figure it out without me disturbing your thought process. I think it is a rather good solution.”

Yuuri smiled. “Thank you.” Then he had to take a deep breath. “I... well.” His stomach was lurching at what he had to say. Phichit deserved so much better. “I do value your friendship a lot and of course I am very grateful for everything you have done for me up to this point.”

Under his smooth, dark skin Phichit's face turned ashen. “Oh dear – I just realized – I never wanted to give the impression of trying to buy my way into your bed. Or affection.”

“The thought occurred to me for a moment,” Yuuri admitted. “But you're too decent a person for that.”

“Thank you for the assessment.” Phichit swallowed. “So... that's a no, then?”

“I'm sorry, but I can't answer your affection for me.”

“I see.” He breathed in and out. “You are already taken, I suppose.”

“I am not entirely sure whether I could fall in love with you if I wasn't. Maybe yes. Maybe no. But yes. While the girl I am supposedly courting does not exist, the person she is covering up for certainly does.”

“Lucky man.”

Yuuri did not begrudge the sadness in his voice. “Me too.”

Phichit managed to smile at that.

Damn. Yuuri was most definitely not in love with him, but right now he half wished he was, just so he could have given him a different answer. It just wasn't fair. “I... I'm sorry.” He sighed. “I gave you cause to hope for a different answer.”

“No.” Phichit shook his head. “You have been nothing but kind and honest to me. That's nothing you need to apologize for and you most certainly don't need to blame yourself for my mistakes.” He took a sip of wine. “Well… on the upside… I have work to distract myself. And I am an artist. I can take the heartbreak and the pain and turn it into art.” There was a smile now in his voice and tucked in the corner of his mouth and while it didn't look and sound exactly cheerful, it at least was genuine. “I do hope you can still consider me your friend and your sponsor upon my return.”

Yuuri – almost involuntarily – raised an eyebrow at that.

Phichit shrugged. “What can I say, I adore art in any form and I love supporting talented artists, regardless the personal relationship – well, it is of course the very best to be good friends and I usually don't associate with those I don't like in private. But... well, what I want to say is, my sponsorship is neither bound to nor influenced by carnal relationships. Or the prospect of these. That's all.”

“To this I might need some time of consideration,” Yuuri admitted.

“You shall have it,” Phichit assured. “Tomorrow I will be gone.”

Yuuri wanted to apologize again. But that probably wouldn't be helpful at all.

Their dinner concluded and when Yuuri reached for his money to pay his share, Phichit raised a hand in silent, soft protest and paid for the two of them.

In soft silence they then walked for a while, before Phichit said, “I go left” and nodded down the street he would be heading down on.

“I have to go on a bit.” Yuuri sighed. “So...”

“Good night,” Phichit said.

“Good night,” Yuuri answered. He would have liked to offer him a hug, but that was probably inappropriate.

They clasped hands and finally Yuuri managed to say, “Have a save trip.”

“I will. Get some more solos in the meantime, yes?”

He nodded and then, smile tinted wistful by the fuzzy light of the street lamp, he turned around and wandered down the street.

 

With their goodbyes said already he did not see Phichit off the next morning, despite seeing a sponsor off for a trip was one of the very few reasons aside of sickness and death Mr. Feltsman gave them leave for absence from rehearsals.

In the evening he sang his part in  _Undine_ , keenly aware of the empty seat in one of the boxes and the first thing he greeted Viktor with a kiss and then with an unhappy, “Well, he confessed his affections to me. The evening before he left on a business trip.”

“He has a good sense of timing, I have to give him that,” Viktor, already at the cembalo, commented. “In case of hesitation or rejection there is time to think it through and calm down for both sides. Very considerate, that man.”

“I know, right?” Yuuri sighed.

Viktor cocked his head. “Are you regretting having rejected him?”

“I regret having hurt a good friend, that's all.”

“That's never nice.” Each word was underlaid with a single, sharp note from the cembalo.

Suddenly Yuuri felt an intense need for touch washing over him; he stepped behind Viktor, reached out and wrapped his arms around his shoulders.

Viktor startled, but remained as he was, letting Yuuri take a few breaths before he very softly asked, “Are you alright?”

“Yes. Just grateful I've fallen for you, of all people.”

Viktor turned in his arms and hugged him, pulling him on his lap. “Me too. I guess it is good we found each other. Incredible luck.” He pressed a kiss on Yuuri's temple. “The man that gets to be with Phichit will be equally lucky and hopefully deserving of him and then Phichit will thank his lucky stars that you rejected him in favour of an one-eyed idiot who spent several years underneath a theatre.”

The soft laughter in his voice made Yuuri look up, but instead of answering his questioning look, Viktor winked. “Lesson first.”

Warming up. Singing scales up and down. Then a few folk songs before Viktor played the lead-in to Rienzi's last big aria in the fifth act, with him praying and drowning in desperation and desolation. Allmächt'ger Vater, blick herab! Hör mich im Staube zu dir flehn! Die Macht, die mir dein Wunder gab, lass jetzt noch nicht zugrunde gehen!“

Viktor, without interrupting his violin play, nodded along. Yuuri sang through the constantly repeating verses, modulating the speed in which he sang occasionally and added more breath to a note to convey the madness that was bit by bit creeping up on Rienzi now. “Allmächt'ger Vater, blick herab! Hör mich im Staube zu dir flehn! Mein Gott, der hohe Kraft mir gab, erhöre mein tiefinbrünstig Flehn!”

Viktor lowered his violin. “You've been working on it.”

Yuuri shrugged. “I want to spend as little time as possible on perfecting this role in our lessons and I want to give Mr. Feltsman as little reason as possible to stuff me into the damn corset for this one too. Bad enough that I have to wear it for the Heilmann.”

“I fail to see your point.”

Yuuri sighed and shook his head. “Did you ever have to wear one on-stage?”

“No, but I also did never have a voice that can sing across god knows how many octaves you can manage under ideal conditions – which a corset can very well help provide,” Viktor answered, wagging his finger at him.

Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “Admit it, you just like seeing me in that blasted thing.”

“That as well.”

Of course.

“Well, I do not like spending my time with you on Wagner either and you are probably tired.” Carefully Viktor lowered the covering on the cembalo keys. “Let's go down?”

“Gladly.”

Over dinner, chicken, potatoes, carrots and onions, cooked over a low fire in white wine, Viktor finally asked, “So you consider yourself fortunate to have me?”

Yuuri chuckled. “Stop fishing for compliments. You know I do.”

“Well, we will see how fortunate you consider yourself when I live and walk in broad daylight and can expose you to any and all of my eccentricities – like wearing my favourite trousers on the street.”

“You will not,” Yuuri answered, even before the words were sinking in. Then his mind went blank for a moment. And finally he blinked at Viktor. “What?” He had to put down his fork and knife. And again he said, “What?”

“What do you think about a place out in Zschernitz? It's a bit of a way from here, but flats there are somewhat cheap and the kitchens are apparently all equipped with at least one window out to the backyards. I think three rooms should be enough for one or two people... Yakov has looked at some, he can give you a summary. I think there are even houses that are affordable,whole houses, with so many rooms.” Suddenly Viktor's voice softened. “You should like it there too, after all. I do hope you will spend a lot of time there with me.”

He was serious. Yuuri felt something bubble up in his throat and burning behind his eyes, so bright was the prospect unfolding in front of him. “That sounds...” His head shook in tiny, tiny shivers. “Amazing,” he finally got out. “This is... Viktor, how long have you been sitting on this?”

“I have been thinking about it for a while now and I have talked with Yakov. He is looking at flats for me and for work I can do.”

It was still a little too much for Yuuri to just wrap his mind around. “Work. What do you have in mind?”

“I cannot return to the stage, obviously. Not in Dresden and probably not in too many German countries. Maybe Austria offers a chance. I would love to see Vienna. I think you would love it there. And of course, Milan is an option I am highly in favour of. But as long as we remain here, I will work as a music teacher. I think there are actually several well-to-do schools that wish to offer their young female students a fine musical education, the easier they may appear cultured and intelligent and at the same time demure to a potential future husband. And of course I can offer private lessons.”

“You are too handsome for that,” Yuuri laughed, “No mother with half her senses would let her impressionable daughter spend some time alone with you.”

“She could rest assured that her daughter's honour has nothing to fear from me.”

Yuuri took his hand and pressed it firmly against his lips. “Does Yura know?”

“He does. And he is happy. Well, in his own, particular way.” Viktor chuckled.

“Only about the _leaving-the-cave-beneath-the-theatre_ part or about the long-term plans as well?”

Now the radiance of Viktor's smile dimmed just a little. “I am working on that. He always hated being left alone. I hope for him to find other people here, thanks to you. It would make it easier for him when we leave. If he does not wish to leave Dresden as well.”

“He claimed I was making him more sociable.” Now Yuuri picked up his fork again. “He made friends with one of the stagehands.”

“Yes, I know. I've seen him occasionally. His name is Otto Becker. And Yura actually talks about him. He talked about you too when you first came here and he likes you a great deal. So I figured, he might think highly of this fellow too and took a closer look.”

“So? What do you think?”

“What do _you_ think?” Viktor returned the question. 

Yuuri blinked at him and then, finally moved his head in thinking. “Well... I have not talked to him yet, but so far – he seems rather calm. Collected. Grounded.”

Viktor nodded and then took a sip of wine. “Yes, I thought the same. He seems rather rational. Yura met him at one of these revolutionaries meeting he still goes to, he says. And then it turned out they are both working here. I guess it figures. Last time some of his new friends were stagehands as well. But he seems decent. Rational. Less inclined to violence than I expected. I overheard him talking one other stagehand down.” A fork of chicken, another sip of the White Burgundy wine. “I like him a lot better than some other people Yura associated with in the past.”

He did not sound entirely convinced, Yuuri found, but he was making an effort. “He talked about him to you. Apparently he thinks Becker would find your approval.”

“He does. And I suppose he should. I cannot have an eye on the boy forever, can I?”

“Probably not. He's growing up.”

“I know.” Viktor sighed and took another sip of wine. Yuuri refilled his glass. “Here,” he tapped his brow, “I already understood. But the understanding has yet to arrive here.” And with that he tapped his chest, right above the heart.

The mood had suddenly grown a tad too heavy for Yuuri to bear. “What about Mr. Feltsman then?” he asked, “Would you be happy to leave him behind or do you think we could find him employment in Milan as well?”

Thankfully the change of subject worked and Viktor laughed. “I think to some degree he will be glad to see the back of me, as long as he can assume I will not get into trouble. To be honest, it might be best for him if I was gone. He deserves some rest. With me around he has not been able to get any.” He smiled into his glass. “But it might be likely he would take a position in Milan if it was offered to him. Or maybe he would enjoy his remaining life in the warm South. It would help with his bones. He has been complaining about it recently.”

Viktor wanted to live properly again. He wanted to live with Yuuri; probably sharing whatever flat he would pick with him, if Yuuri wished  ~~ it ~~ . And maybe he wanted to return to the stage.

Yuuri, for now, mainly wanted to be and live with Viktor. Build a life with him. Wake up by his side everyday without sneaking around in a flat or a house they shared. That was it. And music. He wanted music, that was for sure. Anything else, he was sure, would come as they went on, just as Viktor's kisses and caresses just a little later the evening came upon him.

 

The final dress rehearsal for  _Rienzi_ came and it was a disaster. 

The dancers missed their steps. The chorus was off-key like Yuuri had never heard it before ever since he had come here and oh dear, there had been so many instances of people forgetting their lines. Yuuri – at least in his own imagination – chief among them. Something as short as “Für Rom! – Sie ziehen aus den Toren; nun denn, ich will sie euch verschließen!” came easily, but any recitative or aria saw him fail and go blank for at least a moment.

Also there was nary any line in Adriano's part Plisetsky didn't miss. To be fair, he had been shaken with nerves for the last week or so, shivering off stage. But he had performed perfectly before. So it was alright. This mess-up would only serve to make Yuri Plisetsky more focused on performing perfectly and without any flaw. Yuuri was sure of that. That was the only reason  _he_ could stay focused and somewhat calm after all this. It would be alright. He was worrying about his mess-ups. This was good. He would not make these mistakes again when it mattered. He would be focused. He was focused now.

Plisetsky, however, did not seem to focus, at least not right now. His face was tense, bottom lip quivering.

He didn't stop with it when he fell down and died in the last scene.

Mr. Feltsman looked on as the music played out and finally died.

He then continued to look on without saying even a single word.

Finally he sighed. “Dress rehearsal,” he finally sighed. “Last dress rehearsal. Then day after tomorrow.”

No yelling. Nothing. Just a long-suffering, resigned sigh that spoke of many a dress rehearsal gone bad that had led up to many a premiere gone well.

Yuuri stretched, mindful of his costume, and then wandered off to change back into his street clothes. Final dress rehearsal or not, Mr. Feltsman would give them pointers what to work on by themselves tomorrow, hoping it would positively affect the performance. Yuuri preferred to be in trousers and a shirt for that, rather than the loose breeches and tunic of his costume, paired with a rather anachronistic toga that was both very impressive and a safety hazard when he moved. Also he much preferred to be rid of his wig of long, auburn tresses and the accompanying beard. The blasted thing tickled, aside of looking absolutely ghastly.

When he hurried back, remainders of stage make-up still sticking to his skin and a few pins still holding back his hair, Plisetsky was still lying there, not moving.

Yuuri sat down next to him and when Andreas, Johannes Erhardt and Sara came out, followed by the smaller soloists, he just shrugged at their puzzled looks.

Plisetsky didn't move when Mr. Feltsman gave them a rundown on what they should practise by themselves tomorrow (the list was long) and he didn't move when Mr. Feltsman pointed out the things that had actually found his approval (the list was short). He also didn't move when the others got their bearings and left to go on about their day.

Yuuri remained next to him. “Bad day?”

No answer.

Yuuri leaned in closer, just to check whether the boy was actually still breathing.

He was. Thank goodness.

“You do know that this is normal before a performance, right?” he asked.

Now there was finally a reaction, albeit it consisted only of a low, desperate groan.

“Bad case of nerves. That is all. That's normal. You surely have been through this before, haven't you?”

Another groan.

“And you know I'm dealing with this pretty often and I think I am coming out alright most of the time.”

This time Plisetsky finally moved, raising his head, staring at Yuuri in horror. “What?”

“Me. Person with a minor breakdown per week? Or have we all gotten so used to this that it doesn't register anymore with you?”

“Are you,” Plisetsky started, speaking slow and deliberate and with a scratch in his voice that worried Yuuri. Hopefully the boy was not getting sick. “Are you saying I am turning into you?”

What? “Uh...” Yuuri furrowed his brow. “I am not entirely sure what you mean.“

Plisetsky, still pale as a sheet, now got up. “I... I can't turn into you. I won't, I... no.” With that he got up and slowly stalked away.

Yuuri watched him disappear around a corner, shoulders stiff, gait stilted, and decided that Plisetsky had now and forever lost any right to ever complain about Viktor being overly dramatic again. Th only question remaining now was whether this inclination for overly dramatic outbursts was something Plisetsky had adopted from Viktor or whether it was something inherently Russian. Yuuri didn't know enough Russians to be the judge of that.

In any case his attempt of cheering the boy up had very obviously failed. With a sigh Yuuri got up and himself back to his dressing room to remove the final remainders of make-up and hair pins.

Feeling more like himself again, he left to get some lunch and sun.

And when he returned – stomach moderately full and skin warmed by the summery mid-day air – and made his way down to Viktor's cave to go through the blunders he had committed and how to fix them – Yuuri found Plisetsky in a much calmer and collected mood again.

He was sitting on a flight of stairs, ever so slightly leaning against the man sitting next to him and whatever Otto Becker had said to him in the meantime, it had gotten him to smile.

Right now they were talking in low voices and Yuuri passed by restraining his urge to eavesdrop just a little. Judging by their faces – relaxed, intimate, heads close together – Viktor did not have to worry about them plotting a revolution of any sort. Judging by the way their intertwined fingers moved over each other, there were other topics he might find the need to talk to Plisetsky about, but Yuuri was not one to judge about this as well.

 

On the evening of July 23 rd , a Sunday, they were all gathering at one of the side entrances of the theatre, all in costume and wigs, waiting for Mr. Feltsman to give the signal for them to move.

It was blazing hot again, the city still baking with residue heat from the afternoon. Sunset was still an hour or two away and the air was standing and Yuuri dreaded the moment they would have to leave the cool, shadowy hallway and walk the short distance over to the Zwinger.

Mr. Feltsman looked over, saw someone show up on the opposite side of the street and nodded to himself before turning around to them. “You all,” he said, “I say now, later no time. Work good. Sing good. Be good. You are good.”

Yuuri heard Andreas laugh nervously next to him. “Don't tell me he's nervous now?”

“It's the king, I suppose he would be nervous,” Thomas mumbled.

“It's a small, private performance. Not like the king is attending an opening night or something.”

“It's the king and some relatives, if he doesn't like what we're doing here he can do something about it,” Thomas countered. “Basically, Mr. Feltsman is the employee of the king and we with him, so...” He turned to Plisetsky. “You got a payment settled by him, didn't you?”

“After my first solo, yes.” The boy – having returned to his usual confident self – nodded, his fair hair tied back into a high ponytail that nodded empathetically along with him. “It's not that much and it's an annual payment, so don't get that nervous about it. I doubt he will personally fire you for singing one off-key note.”

“I still prefer we don't do this,” Yuuri mumbled. “Let's leave all off-key notes and failed lines two days behind, yes?”

“Good plan.”

Mr Feltsman turned around and waved. “Go.”

They moved in something of an formation, three rows abreast, rushing towards the small gate, praying they would be out of the heat in just a moment.

The man at the gate glanced over them and then to Mr. Feltsman. “That's all of them?”

Mr. Feltsman nodded. “Orchestra is here already.”

“Came in about two hours ago.” Another glance wandered over them.

Yuuri felt that he would very soon start to sweat if he remained in the heat.

Finally the man nodded and opened the gate. “I am sure you know the way?”

“Do. Thank you.”

“Refreshments are prepared for the singers behind the stage. The king and his entourage will arrive in an hour.”

Mr. Feltsman nodded. “I thank you. Is much appreciated.”

Now that they were wandering these halls coolness, blessed, wonderful, coolness, hit them again, the warm evening air that came in through the windows air fragrant with citrus trees that grew in large, wooden buckets and would be carried off into the nearby orangery in autumn for winter.

“I think that's how living in Spain is,” Alexander sighed, a few rows behind them. “Hot, the air fragrant with fruit and greenery, maybe a gentle breeze carrying over the laughter of a beautiful woman...”

“People being shot in the street,” someone else pointed out. “It's still a mess down there.”

“It's a mess no matter where you look,” another voice complained. “Yuuri, weren't you still in Milan when they had their five days of revolt?”

Yuuri turned around. “Yes. As you said – it was a mess.” And he dearly hoped he would never have to deal with it again, but then again, maybe Dresden had not been the right place to go to then. Or any other place in Europe, really.

They walked through a high hall, gilt stucco and everything that was lined with porcelain, showcasing vases and figurines that were probably rather old and very definitely not in daily use anymore.

And finally they arrived in something like a ballroom that for tonight's purposes had been refurbished a little.

Pretty much everything was gilded, the walls, the decorative pillars, the frames of the mirrors, the chandelier and candelabras and the light of the candles and lamps reflected and multiplied by it and it was dizzying. Not even the few rows of gilded and cushioned chairs could break that impression. If anything, they increased it.

Yuuri had seen a few pictures of the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles. This place bore a stark resemblance to it. It figured; at least one or two former Saxonian rulers had been incredibly admiring of their contemporary French king Louis XIV, as pretty much everyone else in Europe at that time.

A stage had been put up at the end, just between two side doors that led to their impromptu backstage area and before it, twenty and four members of the theatre orchestra were already seated, talking, tuning their instruments or playing through some parts, the other fifty and six members busy with providing tonight's theatre audience with the music for the ballet on stage.

They looked as nervous as the singers felt as the latter shuffled past them and to the stage.

As announced, refreshments had been prepared, chilled champagne and white wines from the Meissen vineyards, carafes of water, a sign declaring it to be imported from the healing wells of Bad Segeberg in Holstein; it tasted just as delightful – or not – as Yuuri had always imagined healing waters to taste. Still, he finished his glass and then took a small one of champagne, to get rid of the taste.

“Could have told you it tastes nasty,” Plisetsy said, taking a sip of white wine himself.

One glass per head was very fine for any of them. They all had had a hearty dinner (Yuuri heard Andreas complaining about the fact that his full stomach was rebelling against the tight corset he had been ordered to wear) and could stand a bit of alcohol to calm their nerves and refresh them if mineral water wasn't to their taste.

Their throats suitably moist they now began warming up, breathing in and out, singing scales, carrying tones.

Yuuri felt his mind wander. Viktor had come to his dressing room to wish him well, but this was the first time he would not be somewhere hidden, watching and listening to him. It shouldn't have been not as big a source of worry as it was, but he couldn't help it. He was used to Viktor being there.

Plisetsky glanced at him from the side. “He has heard you sing during the dress rehearsals,” he then said. “The ones that didn't go belly up, I mean. And he still doesn't like  _Rienzi_ , so maybe he wouldn't listen tonight even if we were at the theatre and you would do just fine then as well.” He placed a hand on his shoulder. “Also, you're tougher than you think you are and not needing a crutch every evening is a rather fine way to prove it.”

Yuuri chuckled. “Viktor is my crutch now?”

Plisetsky shrugged. “You're his too, so I guess it's alright. But you've sang without him before, so you really don't need to worry about it too much.”

He nodded, still pondering the crutch remark. “Alright. Thank you.”

“Quiet!” Mr. Feltsman called, “Are here!”

The warm-up singing died in an instant and they ushered to the small doors, peeking out.

The king of course, led the party, even though he was not quite what any of them would have imagined a king to look like.

His suit was neither a military uniform nor some grand court robe, but a very fine, elegant evening suit like any of them would have worn to an opening night banquet and lean and long-faced as he was he didn't even cut an overly remarkable figure in it, despite his height. He looked almost ordinary, if it hadn't been for the two large, shiny medals on his chest.

Queen Maria Anna of Bavaria at his side looked equally unassuming in a fine, azure evening gown with indigo silk trimming the neckline and forming the shoulder bands. Her hair was done up in tiny ringlets and parted in the middle, drawing attention to her well-shaped cheekbones and brow and her rather broad mouth.

The king's younger brother and heir presumptive and his wife – yet another Bavarian princess, an older sister of the queen – didn't fare much better.

“They don't look like much, huh?” Plisetsky commented. “And to think that they are supposedly better than anyone else.”

Behind them, the former king Ludwig of Bavaria, brother to the queen and the princess, came in behind them. The woman at his side was impressive. Lola Montez was dark, dark enough to justify her Spanish name despite her Irish origin, with large, shining eyes that darted about, taking in every detail. Her heart-shaped face went over into an elegantly arched neck, the smoothness of her skin highlighted by the severe, stern black dress with the white lace trimming on her throat and the lace veil in her black hair.

Alexander whistled. “Alright. That guy did it right, I mean – who  _wouldn't_ abdicate for a woman like that?”

Nobody pointed out that Ludwig had not abdicated because of the Montez. Maybe Alexander was right. Maybe the Montez was a substantial factor in the unrests in Bavaria – and maybe even the abdication – after all, rather than just a front one.

She didn't look like she was content with only the lucrative and decorative part of a temporary mistress.

Something about her could draw everyone's attention to her. Yuuri caught Sara pursing her lips as if for a whistle.

“She's not living in Munich anymore,” Plisetsky commented. “Apparently she's in Switzerland now.”

“Switzerland,” Alexander sighed, apparently fantasizing about a trip.

The Montez, taking seat, whispered softly to the king and the prince, drawing their attention fully to her. Neither the queen nor the princess were impressed.

“Off there!” Mr. Feltsman hissed, just as a handful of courtiers and officials came in.

Yuuri would have loved to get a closer look at them and then ask Plisetsky later who was who of them, but that was, for now, not feasible.

“Position,” Mr. Feltsman ordered and they all went on their spot, Yuuri remaining behind the background screen for now.

Andreas went on stage, a few of the chorus singers, for now wearing the same green as Andreas in his Orsini costume over their tunics.

Sara took her place next to the small ladder that went to an opening towards the other side of the screen, a window.

Yuuri went next to her.

She smiled at him. “Well, here goes nothing, brother mine.”

“Here goes nothing,” Yuuri whispered back as the overture played and the curtain rose.

They heard Adreas sing “Hier ist's, hier ist's! Frisch auf, ihr Freunde. Zum Fenster legt die Leiter ein! _”_

The mention of the ladder was Sara's cue to climb up and wait for the moment she would be pulled through the opening by Orsini.

“Don't get raped up there, sister mine,” Yuuri joked and she laughed quickly before going silent.

“Das schönste Mädchen Roms sei mein; ihr sollt mich loben, ich versteh's.”

Andreas' arms reached through, took her and pulled her out, not without Sara screaming.

“Zu Hilfe! Zu Hilfe! O Gott!”

“Ha, welche lustige Entführung aus des Plebejers Haus!” the chorus Orsinis cheered, while Sara's Irene screamed. “Barbaren! Wagt ihr solche Schmach?”

They tried to carry her off but were interrupted by a group of the rival Colonna family.

A fight developed and gave the cue for Plisetsky to come out on stage, hand on the sword at his belt. “Was für ein Streit? - Auf, für Colonna!” There was the sound of yet another fight, before Plisetsky's Adriano spotted Sara's Irene. “Was seh' ich? Gott! Das ist Irene! Lasst los! Ich schütze dieses Weib!” 

He freed her from the Orsinis, protected her against his own family, the remaining chorus came on stage as the people of Rome and then the ensuing fight had to be broken off by the Cardinal of Rome.

The scene played out and Yuuri's stomach finally settled. He was here. Viktor was not, which was regrettable, but it couldn't be helped. He would sing nonetheless, no matter what. He and Viktor had worked hard for this, but if he couldn't show it under any circumstances, he shouldn't have invested the time and energy in the first place.

“Lest die Messe!” Andreas called on stage and Yuuri took a deep breath. “Macht Euch von hinnen!”

“Unverschämte! Ich, der Legat des Heil'gen Vaters!”

“Fort, heil'ger Rotrock!”

It was time.

“Hört die Lästrer!”

Yuuri stepped out on stage the moment the people called out in protest.

“Zur Ruhe!” he called and the chorus fell silent. He turned around to them, glaring, straightening his shoulders just a little to appear more imposing. “Und ihr, habt ihr vergessen, was ihr mir geschworen?”

The people fell back a little, obviously ashamed.

Satisfied Yuuri's Rienzi turned to the nobles, admonishing them now. “Ist dies die Achtung vor der Kirche, die eurem Schutze anvertraut?”

It was Sara's cue to let go of Plisetsky and run over to him, throwing herself into his arms with such energy that Yuuri stumbled a bit. That wasn't planned. Yuuri had to step a little to the side and swing her a bit. She leaned against him, breathing a soft, “Sorry.”

He nodded, turning around to the nobles again, glaring. “Dies ist eu'r Handwerk, daran erkenn' ich euch! Als zarte Knaben würgt ihr unsre Brüder und unsre Schwestern möchtet ihr entehren! Was bleibt zu den Verbrechen auch noch übrig?” Good. Good, very good, he was calm and collected and nothing could shake him out of the roles. “Das alte Rom, die Königin der Welt macht ihr zur Räuberhöhle, schändet selbst die Kirche; Petri Stuhl muss flüchten zum fernen Avignon; kein Pilger wagt's, nach Rom zu ziehn zum frommen Völkerfeste, denn ihr belagert, Räubern gleich, die Wege!” Carefully, still holding Sara close to him, he turned, wandering a circle around them. “Verödet, arm, versiecht das stolze Rom, und was dem Ärmsten blieb, das raubt ihr ihm,” he spat his accusation. “Brecht, Dieben gleich, in seine Läden ein, erschlagt die Männer, entehrt die Weiber, blickt um euch denn, und seht, wo ihr dies treibt!” He gestured broadly around him, pointing towards the place the nobles were desecrating with their crimes.” The nobles of the chorus followed his gesture, while the people nodded. “Seht, jene Tempel, jene Säulen sagen euch: es ist das alte, freie, grosse Rom, das einst die Welt beherrschte, dessen Bürger Könige der Könige sich nannten! Verbrecher, sagt mir, gibt es noch Römer?”

His big entrance. His first impression. Rienzi as a strong-willed, compelling man, one of the people he was defending, with aspirations for greatness.

He listened to the jeers and the mocking the nobles had for him. He calmed the people, kept them from engaging any more in battle. He was Rienzi. He had to hold onto that thought for now, at least until it was finally over, until the nobles and the people had left until he had persuaded Pliesetsky's Adriano to his cause. Only then it was time for him to leave the stage and only then he could lean against something. His legs were shaking.

Andreas and Johannes stood at his side as Plisetsky and Sara began to declare their love for each other.

“You alright?”, Johannes asked, procuring a handkerchief and carefully dabbing his face with it, as to not smear the stage make-up.

He nodded. “Goes...” His throat was dry and he swallowed.

Andreas handed him a glass of water, drinking himself some.

Yuuri downed it without shuddering too much at the taste. “Thank you. It goes better than expected. I mean, no breakdowns so far, I remember my lines, I am remembering right now that I have been on stage...”

Johannes grinned. “One could almost think you're getting used to it.”

A small shuffle arose next to them as some chorus singers quickly threw the robes of either a noble's party or of a legate of the Roman empire over their tunics.

Yuuri peered out and into their small audience. Most of them listened with rapt attention, the ladies having their hands folded delicately in their laps.

The Montez had cocked her head and watched the proceedings on stage intently, but Yuuri couldn't tell whether her dark eyes were following Plisetsky or Sara.

One person, however, didn't look impressed at all.

The man didn't appear to be nobility, nor a courtier or an official of the court. Maybe an artist. In the dim light Yuuri could only get an impression of an unfortunately proportioned face; maybe both light and the downturned mouth exaggerated the impression.

Meanwhile on-stage Irene and Adriano finished their declaration of love and devotion while hugging each other tightly. “Bräch' auch die Welt zusammen, riss' jeder Hoffnung Band; der Liebe Regionen sei'n uns ein neues Vaterland!“

From the orchestra a soft trumpet blow sounded.

Sara called in confusion “Was für ein Klang?”, Plisetsky, equally confused, yelled, “Wie schauerlich!”

Another trumpet, this time louder, and Plisetsky, this time even more confused, continued, “Was hat das zu bedeuten? Das ist kein Kriegsruf der Colonna.”

Time to get ready for the next part.

 

It went over well. Incredibly well even. The songs came out right. They hit the notes. They had their lines firm and fixed in their heads and quick on their tongues.

In the end Rienzi stood in the Capitol, with the people of Rome who had once so adored him throwing wreaths of burning tar at the building, cursing him.

“Wahnsinnig Volk! Wen greift ihr an? Wie glaubet mich ihr zu vernichten? So hört von mir das letzte Wort: so lang die sieben Hügel Romas stehn, so lang die ew'ge Stadt nicht soll vergehn, sollt ihr Rienzi wiederkehren sehn!” His promise to return as long as Rome would exist was probably meant as a gesture of forgiveness. Yuuri had decided right from the start to not play it like that. It was Rienzi's curse. As long as the city of Rome would stand, someone like Rienzi would rise again, a charismatic man of the people to be corrupted by power and turn into the very ruling class he had so despised.

“Bald fasst ihn schon der Feuerbrand!” the chorus called, cursing him, “Er ist verflucht, er ist gebannt! Verderben treffe ihn und Tod! Auf, ehrt der Kirche Hochgebot!”

Irene was the last to have remained at Rienzi's side and she was with them as the flames – red, yellow and orange silk scarfs lighted from behind – went up around them.

And then Plisetsky's desperate scream of, “Irene! Irene!” as Adriano saw his beloved being devoured by the fire. “Auf, durch die Flammen! Ah!” With that he ran towards them.

Two drums imitated the rumble of a falling building.

Yuuri knew what was coming and tucked in his head.

Sara in his arms giggled. “I love this part.”

From above, prop rubble, prop bricks, prop pieces of wall fell on them and one hit Yuuri on the arm.

With a last, dying scream he let Rienzi fall and be buried with his sister under the building that was collapsing.

Then Plisetsky's final scream as he was buried alongside them.

And then the stage was dark.

With a rustle the curtain fell. After hours and hours and hours it was over.

“What did they think?” Yuuri mumbled as someone cleared the prop rubble from his and Sara's backs.

“They did seem to like it,” she mused, dusting off her skirt. “The Montez definitely did and her opinion the the most important if you ask me.”

Yuuri grinned. “I'll tell Mila that.”

“Pft.” She shrugged. “Do so, if you will, she will agree. A fellow performer is still the most valued critic.” Then she paused. “But she _is_ as beautiful as people say.”

Yuuri shook his head. “She could be your sister by the looks of it.”

“Might be a cause, but not a reason.”

Plisetsky came to them, shaking his head. “That's it, we did it.” He held up his hand and Yuuri clapped it with his own.

Sara did the same and they went off, mingling with the other singers and the first orchestra musicians coming in all of them congratulating and complimenting each other, several clapping Yuuri, Plisetsky and Sara on the back and commenting positively on Andreas' first solo part.

Several of them were pale from exhaustion.  _Rienzi_ was an exercise in stamina for all of them.

Mr. Feltsman sighed, leaning against a wall. He, as well, was pale and he didn't look happy. “Good work,” he said, though. “Now back to theatre.”

“No curtain call?” Sara asked, sounding profoundly disappointed.

“Will have. Yes. Not here. In theatre. Were belongs.”

She blinked. “Oh. Alright. Yes.”

“Yes. Go. Go now. All. I come later with king.”

Johannes Erhardt, standing nearby, nodded. “Alright. You heard the man. Back to the theatre. Let's get cleaned up and then heartily drunk, what do you say?!”

This was met with cheering and they walked off, through the corridors of the Zwinger, over the street and then into the dark theatre, sleeping already after tonight's ballet had already ended several hours ago.

“You were good,” Plisetsky commented walking beside him. “Like, really good. That was impressive.”

Yuuri felt his ears grow warm. “My, thank you.”

“It's just the truth.” Plisetsky looked up at him. “I mean, I thought you could be decent if you stopped being a nervous wreck all the time, but that was really nice.”

Yuuri laughed. “I got a good teacher. And amazingly someone implicitly threatening to chew your head off if you don't work hard is a really good motivator.”

Plisetsky's smile turned into a smirk. “I'm happy to provide.”

“No surprise here.” They parted ways as the dressing rooms came up.

Yuuri slipped through the door, closed it and then, with a relieved breath, leaned his head against the wood.

His dressing room was alight, but right now he didn't pay attention to it.

It was over. Thank goodness, it was over. The weeks of working until he could only drop down to sleep, the time with Viktor spent only on singing, rehearsing, discussing the character of Rienzi and his development, it all had finally come to an end and it was a glorious end to boot.

Arms wrapped around him, a tall, heavy body leaning against his back.

Yuuri wasn't even surprised. He leaned back, lifting his hands to entwine his fingers with Viktor, and then turned around.

Viktor met him with a kiss and a smile and Yuuri laughed. “Oh no... no, no, I am still in make-up, stop it.” Nonetheless, he kissed back, not before having taken off the beard.

“I do not mind,” Viktor hummed, “You do not mind.” But he let him go after a moment, running a hand over his cheek. “It went well, I take it?”

“Amazing.” Yuuri pressed a kiss on his hand before he took off his wig and headed to his vanity. Sitting down he started to work off the make-up with a cloth, water and a little oil. His skin came out pale as ever and slightly reddened from his efforts.

“Thank goodness. You look like yourself again.” Viktor appeared behind him in the mirror and bend down to lean his cheek against Yuuri's. “It is always so eerie to see you in costume, skin and hair so different, but your eyes being the same.”

He put on his glasses again. “If it calms you, it weirds me out as well.” He got up. “Can you help me with the costume?”

“Gladly, love.” He carefully unwrapped the toga from Yuuri's arms and shoulders and carefully folded it over the screen.

Then he returned to Yuuri, undoing the lace of his loose tunic until Yuuri could shrug it off. “You should play more medieval roles,” he said. “The clothes look good on you.”

“Next time there's a staging of _Undine_ I'll try out for Huldbrand then,” Yuuri chuckled.

Viktor pulled him closer, kissing him on the brow, the temples, the cheeks while he started unlacing the shirt. “Tell me about it. How was it? Who was there? Any interesting people?”

Yuuri's eyes were fluttering shut under the caresses Viktor was bestowing on him. “In a bit, yes? I come down.”

“Hm?” Viktor was breathing down his neck and it was proving to be supremely distracting. 

“And tell you all about it then. Mr. Feltsman said we are to meet the king and his entourage here. Since we had no curtain call.”

“Oh. The king himself.” The words were sighed around the crinkle of a nose. “Cannot possibly let him wait.” He was completely serious, despite the slightly joking lilt in his voice and Yuuri was grateful for that.

“I try to leave as soon as possible,” he promised.

“You were the lead role, I doubt they will let you off too easily.” Again Viktor pressed a kiss on Yuuri's brow. “But I am patient. And with your permission I will entertain myself by watching your collective audience. I would love to take a look at that Lola Montez.”

“Not you, too.” The spell was broken ever so slightly. The need to cling to Viktor with all that he got had subsided a little. “Sara was making eyes at her, too. Let's just hope Mila is not the jealous sort.”

“You have seen her. Can you say you blame her?”

“She is intriguing. Trapping, yes. I would like a chance to talk to her in private.”

Viktor chuckled.

“Talk, mind you. I would love your presence for that occasion, if it ever arises. Which would be great.” He sighed. “To answer your question, no I do not blame Sara for being interested in a meeting with the Montez. I still hope, though, she is in the clear with Mila about this.”

“You are not fond of cheating, huh?”

“Who would be? But if they have some agreement about these things, who would I be to judge? Most of all I can live without the drama that comes with it.” At last, finally Yuuri got rid of his shirt and stepped out of the boots and breeches. He heard Viktor suck in a breath and turned slightly sideways, glancing over his shoulder, pausing. “Something the matter?”

“Oh. No. Nothing.” Viktor averted his gaze. “But do get dressed, love. Otherwise we _will_ make the king wait for you to come.”

“I am not entirely sure the king wants me to come.”

Considering how much Viktor liked to tease Yuuri and make him blush this little payback was more than welcome.

Viktor cleared his throat. “Well, maybe not. But  _I_ certainly would. But we won't get to that unless you at least appear in front of him, right?”

Yuuri buttoned up his trousers and shrugged on his shirt before going to him, hugging him from behind. “Is that a promise?”

Viktor winced in his arms. “Are you trying to rile me up on purpose?”

The answer was yes. “Maybe,” Yuuri whispered against Viktor's shoulder blades. “Mostly I want to enjoy the fact that I don't have to work on this monster anymore.”

“God, you do not know how much I enjoy this too.” Now, finally, Viktor turned around in his arms, his hands cupping the nape of Yuuri's neck as he kissed him and he stepped and stepped and stepped until his back met the wall and Viktor was pressing him against it, cupping his upper thighs and lifting him.

Yuuri's mid-section rubbed tightly against Viktor's body and he was reacting to it. Damn it. Damn him.

Damn Viktor, who was getting hard against him as well.

Finally the kiss eased up.

“Later?” Viktor breathed, voice raw and coarse with desire.

“Later,” Yuuri answered, not without regret. If it had been up to him Viktor could have ravished him right here and now and in any fashion he would like to ravish him.

But then again, social obligations were waiting.

Mr. Feltsman was waiting.

The King of Saxony, not to mention his entourage, were waiting. He finally, finally finished getting dressed, buttoning up his waistcoat and grabbing his jacket.

“I will look on and meet you back here?” Viktor suggested.

“Hrmhm, sounds good.” Yuuri ran a hand through his hair, admiring the silky texture of it. Then he bent down to kiss him. “I missed you, you know that?”

“Me too,” Viktor sighed, “far more than I would like to admit. But for some reason I am so utterly weak when it comes to you.”

“You give yourself too little credit,” Yuuri breathed against his lips, “If you were so weak you would have had me bent over that damn vanity three weeks ago.”

“If I was that weak,” Viktor breathed back, “I would have had you bent over my dining table months ago, so you better not give me ideas.”

The idea was kind of appealing.

But later. Maybe only a little later.

For now Yuuri broke off. “Alright. You won. I go out and be a good, little opera singer and be sociable and meet the king. There. Happy now?”

Viktor kissed him again. “Very happy.”

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. Yuuri would be damned to hell thrice and back if he would get any sleep tonight.

“Go now then.” Viktor opened the door and ushered him out.

Shaking with silent laughter – at Viktor, at himself, at them both and at the fact that they were so desperate for any time together that was not related to work.

It had been a long few weeks.

When he arrived, almost everyone was already there, Mr. Feltsman standing on the far side with the king, his wife and the man who had looked so unhappy during their performance.

Mr. Feltsman's broad, coarse face was ashen, from what Yuuri could see, and occasionally he moved his head in a short, terse nod.

The only two later than him were Plisetsky and Sara – who was in company of Mila and both of them were constantly glancing over to Ludwig of Wittelsbach and Lola Montez as if the latter was the most delicious cake, waiting to be devoured and enjoyed.

The Montez was looking back. Ludwig of Wittelsbach looked on with what seemed to be a mixture of annoyance and intrigue.

Plisetsky on the other hand, trailing in a solid minute after the women, had a rather glazed look on his face and Yuuri had to nudge him. “Had a nice time changing?” he asked, chuckling at how Plisetsky's ears turned a deep shade of crimson. Then he turned his face – quite red as well – to Yuuri and smiled, almost challenging. “Uh. Yes. Yes, I had.”

“Good for you.” Johannes had once said that being in love was a good look on Yuuri.

He had to broaden that statement a little; being in love was a good look on anyone. It most definitely was a good look on Plisetsky.

“You as well, I take?”

Viktor was somewhere nearby, Yuuri knew; no way he would miss something like that. So it was only partly Plisetsky whom he was addressing with his answer. “Good enough that I really hope this is over soon and we can continue where we left off.”

“You're disgusting,” Plisetsky laughed.

Mr. Feltsman now turned around and stalked – legitimately stalked – to them. “You sang well today. Made me proud. Very proud. Now meet your audience.” He gestured. “His Majesty Friedrich August II. Of House Wettin, king of Saxony.”

They all bowed and curtsied.

“Her Majesty Maria Anna Leopoldine Elisabeth Wilhelmine of Wittelsbach, Queen of Saxony and Princess of Bavaria.”

Another round of bows curtsies.

“His Royal Highness Prince Johann Nepomuk Maria Joseph...“ Mr. Feltsman paused for a moment, before sighing, „of House Wettin and his wife, Amalie Auguste of Wittelsbach, Princess of Bavaria.“

Prince Johann was as thin as his brother but had a hard turn about his mouth. Nobody you wanted to cross, even less considering he was next in line to the throne

Again with the bows and curtsies.

“His Royal Highness, Ludwig Karl August of Wittelsbach, former king of Bavaria.”

A deep bow once more.

“The Lady Lola Montez, Countess of Landsfeld.”

A slightly less deep bow and curtsy. Yuuri could hear Mila and Sara giggle. He also saw how the Montez smiled and curtsied herself, dark head bowed in a smooth, high arch.

“Gottlob Sigismund Theodor Uhlig and wife Caroline.”

The couple addressed nodded and they bowed their heads in return. Yuuri wondered what his connection to the king might be.

“And-” Mr. Feltsman's voice faltered, just for a moment.

Next to him, Yuuri heard Plisetsky gasp with joy.

“And my predecessor,” Mr. Feltsman finally continued. “Of course, most of you know Mr. Richard Wagner.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Du-du-dhuuuuuuuuuuh...  
> Yes, I lied. I lied to all of you. Mwahahahahaah.  
> As an apology, next chapter will have some NSFW stuff.  
> Really I was so angry! I had plotted the story out and then my research shows that the Class-A-A-hole actually returned to Dresden and GRAAAAHHHHHH... I mainly wrote Lola Montez in this chapter to comfort me. That woman was 100 kinds of awesome.
> 
> I will never get over the weirdness of writing a silly, stupid fanfic and it turns out to be strangely connected/related to current sociopolitical events. It's scary.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNo still got me in its clutches, but soon, soon I'll be free again of the tyranny of writing every day to... write every day. Because at some point I'd like to finish it. So far I managed two chapters and am close to finishing the third one, worked on some bonus material and wrote a fairy tale. I'm woefully lagging, though. XD  
> (and I am writing Christmas right now. Featuring my home village. Please look forward to ... spring? Summer? when it will be online.)

Chapter 18

 

There was silence, then the softest of rustles around them and all Yuuri could think was Viktor.

Where was he? Was he still around, hearing this?

Richard Wagner smiled. "Well, I must say, Mr. Feltsman," he said in a rather pleasant voice, quite sonorous, full and self-assured, "You have worked wonders on them. I cannot remember ever seeing any of them so disciplined as they are here.”

Yuuri saw Mr. Feltsman nod again.

“Oh, my. Miss Babitch. I haven’t seen you tonight. Are you well?” Mr. Wagner asked, a smile crossing his face as he walked over to Mila and took her hands.

Mila looked like she’d rather be elsewhere. “Well enough. Thank you.” She looked to Sara as if begging her for help.

“We didn’t know you were in Dresden,” Sara finally said. “What a pleasant surprise. How long will you be staying?”

“Oh, my dear,” Mr. Wagner smiled, “you make it sound like I am a mere visitor.”

There was a rush in Yuuri's ears.

“I am so sorry I had to leave my post for a while, but as I see, you all were in more capable hands than I had thought. But still, I have delightful news for you. My absence is over. Starting tomorrow, I will resume my post and my work as musical director.”

The rush in Yuuri's ears grew ever louder. Mr. Feltsman would lose his position? He had had plans for the whole remaining year. What would become of these – what would Yuuri do? He had to admit, he had already eyed one or two of these roles.

“Of course, Mr. Feltsman will retain his position as director and instructor of the chorus – he has always done good work there. In my absence he even managed to discover some new talents.” Mr. Wagner's eyes wandered over Mila, Andreas and Thomas, lingering on each of them. Notably, he didn't spare Yuuri a glance.

Yuuri's stomach sank.

“And I see, young Mr. Plisetsky has positively blossomed in the last few months.”

Plisetsky blossomed now as well. Yuuri was under the impression that the boy right now was busy growing a few inches.

“Miss Crispino, I hear you are as well as ever? What a pretty work you delivered tonight. Lovely as always.”

Sara looked like she was biting down a scream and Yuuri could see Mila move closer to her, reaching out.

And now, finally, Mr. Wagner turned to him. He had pale eyes and equally pale brown hair and hard lines around his nose.

He pulled up the corners of his mouth in a rather unconvincing imitation of a smile. “Well, our Rienzi. What was your name again?”

“Katsuki,” Yuuri answered, “Yuuri Katsuki.” He was pretty sure Mr. Wagner would have known his name already. But it was probably best to humour him.

“Ah. Yes. An interesting choice for my lead, indeed.” He nodded, fixating Yuuri with his gaze. “We will see.”

Was that a praise? Would he be alright after all? Or not? How could he tell?

Mr. Wagner, still smiling, bowed. “Well, tomorrow will be an early start and a long day for me, so with your permission I will retire now.”

“Oh please.” The king smiled and the ladies nodded. “My good man, have a good night's rest, who knows when you will have it again.”

Mr. Wagner smiled, turned away and then left.

Yuuri watched him walk away as the king and his relations came closer now.

The king, the prince and their wives inspected him, he noticed.

He smiled and bowed.

“Mr. Wagner is right,” Princess Amalie commented, “I did not think of it during the staging, but it is a rather strange choice, isn't it.”

“Interesting was the word,” Prince Johann reminded her. “And more apt in any case. It is funny how he learned the words so well.”

“It is easier to learn your lines when you understand the language,” Yuuri said.

The princesses and the prince stared at him.

He had done something wrong, he realized. He had spoken out of turn, without being addressed first. Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

The prince stared at him. The princess and the queen were staring at him.

Finally, Lola Montez commented from the side, “Isn't it wonderful how we can all be united by learning each other's language?” Her voice was a rich, molasses-sweet alto and probably had received some small amount of training in her youth, but not enough to turn her into a singer of any calibre. Mostly she had learned – whether by training or by experience – to speak exactly the way she wanted to speak, to form each and every word very carefully, putting just enough inflection on it to suggest the hint of an idea, but nothing more unless invited to elaborate.

She smiled at him, curiosity sparkling in her dark grey eyes.

“Thank you, madame,” Yuuri said, bowing his head.

The Montez shrugged and turned away to go and talk to both Sara and Mila.

The queen and the princess still regarded him with curious looks and occasionally a question how different life in the Far East must be from life here, to which Yuuri could only answer with a shrug.

He barely even noticed.

The prince and the king engaged into some talk with Johannes Erhardt, nodding and smiling eagerly and again looking to Yuuri when Johannes Erhardt pointed to him with a big smile on his face.

Ludwig of Wittelsbach and Lola Montez talked to Sara and Mila for a while before they turned and left.

He barely even noticed.

Not long after, the king, the prince and their wives bade them a good night as well and finally they were alone.

He barely even noticed.

He barely even noticed how Plisetsky kept chatting on in excitement. Yuuri could only half-heartedly listen to him.

How much earlier had he realized who was there with the king, waiting to be introduced? How was he doing right now?

Plisetsky finally sighed. “You know, you can tell me to shut up and let you leave, it's alright.”

Yuuri blinked.

“And people always complain I am rude.”

He sighed. “Sorry. I think I...” Words. How did words work again? “I suppose, I‘ll just go and find Viktor now.”

Plisetsky nodded. “You do that.” He was still grinning. “Have a nice night.”

Well, a nice night was what he had had in mind, but there was the potential that Viktor would not be in the mood for any niceties now anymore and Yuuri couldn't blame him. His own stomach curdled when he replayed that first meeting. It didn't bode well.

Who knew how Viktor was doing.

When he returned to his dressing room to pick up the basket containing dinner, Yuuri saw for himself.

Viktor had retreated there at some point during the meeting, sitting in Yuuri's chair, his jacket in hands. At some point he must have grabbed it so tight that now there were small wrinkles in the fabric of the sleeves. He was pale, staring ahead without giving the impression of seeing anything.

Yuuri softly closed the door.

Viktor did not look up. Coming closer, Yuuri could see that he was shivering, shaking in slight, fine tremors.

Yuuri knelt down at his right side, resisting the urge to immediately reach out to him. “Viktor?” he asked, softly, softly, his voice a breath.

Viktor blinked. The shaking increased, as did his rapid blinking. His breathing shallowed and several times he swallowed, as if choking on something.

“Viktor, I take your hand now, alright?”

Viktor gave no indication that he had heard him. Maybe he hadn't or he had but couldn't work through the Italian.

Yuuri carefully placed his fingers over Viktor's hand and felt them taken in a surprisingly strong grip.

Yuuri suppressed a little yelp of pain and instead reached out with his other hand, placing it on Viktor's arm.

Viktor's breathing hitched and became even more shallow.

“Sh...” Yuuri's head was spinning. What had Celestino done with him when he had had one of these episodes? He had somehow gotten him through it, but how?

What had been the progression of this? How had he felt?

“Viktor, listen to my voice, yes?”

He let his hand wander up on Viktor's arm; maybe contact helped?

It didn't. Viktor's breath came out in short, flat gusts.

He let his hand wander back down and then closed it around Viktor's hand, pressing it. “Alright. Alright. Viktor, breathe, yes? Breathe in...”

Viktor was still shivering, but he was also breathing in for as long as Yuuri said so.

“And out, yes?”

And Viktor breathed out, slowly, slowly, in a shivering, hitching stream.

He was still shivering, more violently now, teeth chattering.

Yuuri moved his fingers over the back of Viktor's hand. “Focus on breathing, yes? In – out – in – out... yes, like that. That's good – in – out – in – out...”

It took a while until the shivering finally subsided.

Even longer it took Viktor to draw one final, ragged breath. “Thank you...” His voice came out raw and hoarse as if after a long, heavy cry. “I... I... thank you.”

Yuuri gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Well... welcome to my life.”

Viktor breathed out. And in. And out. Yuuri gently moved his fingers over Viktor's wrist. How strange. He was used to be the one in need of this. Usually he was the one breaking down. Not now. Now he was the one giving comfort. And while he did not wish for Viktor to experience something like this again, it felt actually nice to be able to support for a change.

“Is it always that bad?”

“Sometimes worse.”

Viktor sighed. “How often did you have to go through this so far?”

“Pretty often. Sometimes there's a lot of time between these moments. My last fit was quite a while ago.” Yuuri dared to scoot closer and Viktor didn't oppose the contact.

In fact, he leaned into it. “I have an idea when.”

“When you suddenly were so distant.”

Viktor whispered, “I'm sorry.”

“I'm alright now.” Carefully he lifted their joined hands and pried his out to place them on Viktor's shoulders. “It's been a good long while. You are good for me, I think. I am getting more resilient. Stronger.”

“If you got through this so often without going crazy...” A short hiccup, “And you get out of it again and then go on.” He took a deep breath. Another hiccup. Another breath. “You did not get stronger. You were. More than me. I am not sure I could deal with it.”

“You did just now.”

“Because of you.”

“I don't think anyone should be expected to go through this alone. I didn't. If I can prevent it, you won't either.” Yuuri kissed his forehead. “Do you think you can walk?”

Viktor leaned into him, against his lips again. “I hope so.” He got up, tried to stand and then his knees buckled and he stumbled.

Yuuri caught him and leaned him onto him. “Let's go down.”

Viktor clung to him on their way down, his fingers curling into the fabric of his clothes, and Yuuri happily allowed it.

His breathing finally found an even, calm rhythm when they arrived in the darkness of the corridor. Yuuri made a mental note of this. If Viktor ever had a moment like this again, maybe darkness helped. It made sense. He had lived a good part of his life in darkness and semi-darkness so far.

He carefully counted his steps through the cave, turned them at precise angles and only briefly brushed against a chest as he navigated them to the bed. There he let go, placing Viktor on the mattress.

No light; he had to fumble with the matches, grasp for them and pull one out of the box and strike it against the side of the bedpost.

With a hiss the small, dark-golden flame sprung into existence and Yuuri lifted the glass balloon of the oil lamp, lit it and marvelled for a moment how the cut and polished glass multiplied the single flame before he turned back around.

Viktor's arms wrapped themselves around his waist, pulling him back closer to himself.

Yuuri ran a hand through his hair, brushing it back from his left temple and with a deep sigh Viktor leaned into the touch and against Yuuri's stomach, sending a warm gust of air over his skin, followed by a shiver.

“Ne idi,” he mumbled, raw exhaustion framing his voice.

Yuuri placed his hands on both sides of Viktor's face and lifted it to look at him. “No, I'm not leaving,” he whispered. “Promise.”

Viktor's one seeing eye shimmered, but it seemed unfocused, unclear, distant.

“I'm right here,” Yuuri continued. “I'm not going anywhere. So please don't either.” He bent down to press a kiss on Viktor's brow and to his immense relief and delight, Viktor then turned up his face nuzzling and meeting Yuuri's lips with his own.

Leaning back he pulled Yuuri on the bed with him, sliding a hand underneath his shirt.

Yuuri felt his fingers spreading and his palm flattening against his back.

Removing himself from the kiss, Viktor nuzzled Yuuri's neck, the tickle of breath occasionally joined by the press of lips and the soft flick of a tongue.

The touches, the warmth, the feeling of Viktor half under him started to pool and collect in the pit of Yuuri's stomach. He ran a hand through his hair in long, languid, gentle strokes and Viktor took deep, intense breaths with each stroke. “Is this alright for you?”

Viktor lifted his head, looking up to him. “Is it for you?” he asked back, voice still raw and thick. His hands moved over Yuuri's lower back, flat and firm, intent on feeling as much of him as possible. They came to rest at the waistline of his trousers. “If it is good with you, I would very much like to feel you.”

Yuuri kissed him, moving a little so Viktor's hands slipped a little further on his back. “Anything for you, love.”

“If not, if you do not...” Viktor tried to say, but he faltered and sighed.

Yuuri let his hand run down his side. “No need to worry.”

Undressing was a quick affair; then for a long time they simply laid there, bodies entwined.

Yuuri could feel Viktor’s heartbeat against his bare chest, strong and steady and calm; Viktor’s hands tracing paths over his skin; Viktor’s muscles twitching under Yuuri’s fingertips.

Yuuri was almost sure that that was it. Viktor was relaxed in his arms, breathing calm and steady. Maybe he was more exhausted than they both had anticipated.

His half-erect penis still prompted Yuuri to whisper, “What do you want?”

Viktor didn’t answer immediately, drawing Yuuri even closer to him and into an almost desperate kiss.

His penis twitched against Yuuri’s leg and Yuuri delighted in it. He pulled Viktor on top of himself.

Breaking the kiss Viktor moved to Yuuri’s temple. His breath tickled over the shell of Yuuri’s ear and the sensation trickled down his spine and into the pool of desire that was building up.

“You,” Viktor whispered, “you inside me.”

The words were enough to make Yuuri hard. At the same time they were also a bit of a – not exactly shock, but the feeling they elicited definitely went beyond surprise.

Slowly he pushed himself up on his elbows until he was sitting up, Viktor straddling him.

It was closer to the lamp, allowing him to examine Viktor’s face. Tense. Not unsure.

“Sure?” he whispered.

“I want to feel you. As much as possible.”

Yuuri bit on his lips. This was not exactly what he had expected. He had thought their roles reversed whenever he had thought about that form of sex. The way Viktor had sometimes teasingly entered him with a finger and the ideas he occasionally whispered into Yuuri’s ear had always suggested he saw it the same way.

“I…” He nodded and then leaned his brow against Viktor's. “Tell me if something is good or not, yes? Please?”

Viktor nodded, breathing against his lips before kissing him, sweetly and almost innocent. “I would suggest the use of the oil.”

He was recovering, Yuuri noted. A welcome change, but one that might mean he had to put extra effort into making Viktor speechless.

He took up the kiss again, leaning into it and over until Viktor had to fall back on the mattress, still holding Yuuri tightly in his arms.

Yuuri took his wrists, lifted them above his head, mainly to gain some more freedom of movement. Amazingly, though, Viktor writhed under his grip in a way that suggested that he was struggling against the grip, but more for the struggle itself rather than to break free. Yuuri's grip wasn't that tight.

He liked being held down. Note was taken.

Softly he kissed down his way Viktor's temple, then whispered sweet nothings over the shell of Viktor's ear.

He would need the oil soon. Yuuri did not plan on teasing him too much tonight, focusing more on holding him, tightly, firmly, gently, reassuring him and himself that he was still there.

No teasing, just long, drawn-out, hopefully enjoyable lovemaking.

With a – for now – last kiss he parted from Viktor, kneeling between his legs, bending over and twisting to reach to the night stand, to pull open the upper drawer and get the little flask of oil they usually kept constantly refilled with diligence.

Yuuri pried off the stopper and for a moment enjoyed the scent of lavender and mint rising into his nostrils. The scent was a precursor of pleasure to him, coined as such by the many times Viktor had applied the oil to his cock to heighten the sensation of each touch.

He spread the oil on his fingers and then returned his attention to whom and where it actually belonged.

Viktor made use of his hands being suddenly free again and reached out, wrapping his arms around Yuuri's shoulders.

Yuuri let him, let him draw him closer, let him kiss him, let his hands wander over his shoulders, his back, and only when he started to touch and play with his buttocks, Yuuri gently pushed him back into the mattress. Viktor's hands fell off his back.

“Another time,” he said. “Yes?”

“Yes.” Viktor smiled and then leaned back again.

He didn't turn around and when Yuuri shot him a questioning look, his smile turned a little sheepish. “I like seeing your face.”

All of a sudden Yuuri's hands were trembling as he moved them over Viktor's body, sliding downwards and one around his waist.

How had it felt for him?

Viktor had never entered him right away and so Yuuri did neither. Instead he spread the oil on the anus, massaging him there until he felt him relax a bit.

His free hand, slick with oil as well, had started playing with one nipple. Viktor liked that and it had its intended effect of relaxing him further, leaning against Yuuri's hands.

When he pressed into him there was still some slight resistance and Viktor's face tensed up a little.

Yuuri bent down to kiss his neck upwards to his lips. “Are you alright?”

“Not used to it anymore,” Viktor answered with a small, husky laugh. He ran a finger over Yuuri's cheek. “It feels alright. I know it gets very good in a bit.”

Yuuri moved into him for a bit, watching Viktor's face tense, relax, fall slack for just a moment before he collected to himself.

“Good?”

“Very good. I think you can go on.”

Yuuri did.

Adding a second finger proved a bit more of a challenge, though.

Viktor tensed up and hissed under his breath and Yuuri paused in his efforts.

Last time he had been in that position and had felt discomfort, Viktor had done his best to distract him and had done so a little too well for them to do proceed any further.

He gently pressed a few kisses on Viktor's neck, putting a hint of teeth behind it that had Viktor whimper softly. Good. Yuuri knew he was sensitive at the neck and the throat, more than probably other people and he kissed him there before sucking down on the skin.

In the meantime, he dipped his fingers in the oil again, spread it over his palm and savoured the tingle and the bite that came from the pepper and the mint, the latter contrasting and complementing in scent with the lavender.

Even just wrapping his fingers around Viktor's cock had him jolt slightly and Yuuri felt him relax around his fingers.

He took his time spreading Viktor, listening to whispered or sometimes just moaned encouragements, but he was straightforward about it. Right now Viktor needed him, rather than any teasing.

Also, his own erection was throbbing painfully between his legs and against Viktor’s skin and any noise Viktor made just seemed to harden him up even more, every time he moved underneath him sent another jolt through him.

“Is it alright?”

Viktor looked up at him and then, slowly, nodded. “Alright.”

There was a bit of a fumble, Viktor lifting his hips, Yuuri pulling his knees over his shoulders and trying to angle himself. They lost their balance a bit and Yuuri fell a bit on him. They laughed, breathing against each others lips. Inarguably Viktor's laugh was the best sound Yuuri had heard tonight.

It might have been easier if they would take a different position, but Viktor held him too tightly to move away and Yuuri was already pressing against him and into him.

Viktor arched up to him – and then stopped, exhaling sharply.

Yuuri paused. “What's wrong?”

“Too fast,” Viktor mumbled, face tense and slowly, slowly relaxing. “Slower.”

Yuuri ran a finger over his cheek. “We can stop. If it's too much we stop.”

But Viktor shook his head, clinging to Yuuri's shoulders. “Please. Not. I am alright. I am.”

“Please, I don't want to hurt you...”

“You are not.” Viktor jerked up against him. “Please.”

Who was he to deny him?

He moved again, slower this time, more deliberate, with more restraint, slowly gliding in and out again, in again and a bit deeper. With each move Viktor shuddered, tensing and relaxing again, exhaling his breath in soft moans and whimpers.

And then a final thrust and he was in entirely, entirely encased in dizzying hotness.

They paused for a long while.

Viktor breathed out, long and soft and with a laugh. He reached out to touch Yuuri's cheek.

“Love you,” he whispered and pulled him down to himself, “love you, my d-ah!”

Yuuri thrust into him, cutting him short.

They were slow, slow all the way through, pressure building up between them bit by bit, without any rush and Viktor's soft moans dripped from his lips in long, languid breaths in between the kisses Yuuri pressed on his lips.

Slow were the strokes Yuuri lavished on Viktor's erection trapped between them and even when they came – Viktor first, Yuuri a bit later, savouring the heat and tightness closing in around him – they did it slowly, bit by bit.

It was blinding nonetheless, sending shivers through him and he sank down on Viktor, gliding out.

Under him Viktor was still shaking a bit as he raised a hand and ran it through Yuuri's hair.

“How...” Yuuri's voice was hoarse and raw and he cleared his throat a bit, rolling off of Viktor in the process. “How do you feel?”

Viktor breathed in. And out. In. And out. And finally said, “Wonderful. So much.” He ran a finger over Yuuri's cheek. “Thank you. Thank you. So much.”

Yuuri leaned in and kissed him on the lips and Viktor responded to it tiredly, but notably.

“Are you alright?”

“I think. Can you fetch me the wet cloth, though?”

Yuuri turned and twisted a little without getting out of Viktor's arms. He bent over and his hand found the bowl of water underneath the bed and the cloth in it.

He pressed out the excess water before handing it over to Viktor, who then carefully and with gentle, caressing strokes wiped him down before cleaning up himself and then carefully throwing it back away under the bed.

After having done that to his satisfaction, he snuggled back in closer to Yuuri, running a finger over his back.

Yuuri chuckled and then scuttled closer. “How are you? Really?”

“Bit sore,” Viktor admitted. “Filled. Calmer.”

“Good.” Yuuri smiled. “I'm glad.”

Viktor pulled him closer to himself, breathing into his hair. How lovely. Yuuri could have stayed that way forever. He curled up a little around him.

“What do you think of Mr. Wagner?” Viktor asked after a while.

Yuuri thought about it for a little and then sighed deeply. “I haven’t seen much of him yet and I already have some notions and ideas about him, of course. Maybe he turns out to be alright. But right now I don’t have a good feeling about him.” He lifted a hand to his face, rubbing his temple. “I suppose life will be a lot harder from now on.”

“Life is hard already,” Viktor pointed out, “You are working under Yakov.”

“Yes, it’s already hard, but it is because Mr. Feltsman is a demanding director and instructor. It’s hard because he knows what we can do and wants us to do it and to get there. And it’s exhausting, you know that.”

Viktor laughed. “I remember the last few weeks.”

“It reaps high rewards, though.” Again, Yuuri ran a hand over his face. “But right now… I admit it, I am a bit worried for my mental health.” He took a deep breath. “Maybe I’m worrying too much, though. I mean, he obviously can’t stand Sara. You should have seen his face when he had to talk to her.”

“No, he does not like her,” Viktor agreed.

“Her career hasn’t suffered from it as far as I can tell. How bad can it be?”

Viktor smiled. “I do admire your optimism. And for what it is worth - if it is too much, I am here.” There was a palpable bitterness in his voice. “Will probably not change anytime soon.”

Yuuri lifted his head. “What do you mean?”

“That man knows pretty much everyone who has anything to do with music and anyone who fancies themselves to. He would...” He swallowed. “He would learn of me. And then...”

Mr. Wagner seemed to be well-connected indeed. Probably knew most of Dresden's nobles and wealthy bourgeoisie. If Viktor was taking up any teaching work Mr. Wagner at some point would hear of him, but if he went by a different name, how would he ever draw the connection?

Viktor's face hinted that he might not be to receptive of this suggestion, so Yuuri bit it back. Maybe he would come to this conclusion himself in time.

“Might as well,” Viktor sighed. “It's not like I can leave Yura alone now.”

“He seems to quite like Mr. Wagner,” Yuuri pointed out.

“Which is exactly why I refuse to leave him all alone,” Viktor commented. “Or would you like him to fall back under his thrall like before?”

“I haven't witnessed that before, I can't tell,” Yuuri admitted. “But maybe it will be different this time around.”

“What would make you think that?” Viktor asked.

Yuuri chuckled. “I doubt that last time he had a handsome stage hand looking out for him.”

Viktor opened his mouth, potentially to protest Plisetsky's youth as a very good reason for that – and then nodded. “Yes. Right.” And finally, finally he smiled. “Yes. Maybe it will be alright. At least in that regard.”

“At least in that regard,” Yuuri repeated. “And with everything else – we shall see.”

 

Two weeks passed and brought the upheaval with them Mr. Wagner had announced on that Sunday evening after the  _Rienzi_ performance.

Pretty much all of their female singers quit on a rather short notice, citing worry how the changed work environment might have a negative effect on both their virtue and their inner lives. If Mr. Wagner liked one thing then it was women who were depending on getting into his good graces.

Mr. Feltsman was removed from the position of musical director, which, as Mr. Wagner declared, he had only held for interim anyways. His absence had never been permanent, albeit it had taken him a little longer to return than he had planned.

Yuuri, wondering what that might mean, asked Johannes about it, who was cross about the development for his own reasons. With Mr. Feltsman it would have been easy for him to return to his position on the chorus and have a decent shot at a solo once his sister's troubles were sorted out. With Mr. Wagner all bets were off, as he had bemoaned. The man had a certain few selected people he favoured and a whole lot of people he would not spare a second glance.

“Well, he was in favour with the king before things went weird in March,” he explained over a by-the-riverside lunch consisting of some shared fruit tarts.

It was a cloudy, oppressive day, promising a rainstorm later. Rainstorms were always an interesting background noise for his singing lessons.

“With Wagner and his political ideas, it was always a matter who was in the room and whom he was talking to – probably still is. It is him after all. He can talk about revolution and abolishing the monarchy in the morning and then go and have lunch with the king an hour later. After March, he fell out of favour more or less, but apparently that's over now. I know he was in Vienna recently. Maybe he could talk his way back. When Mr. Feltsman took on the position of musical director, there was no talk of it being only for a time. We all thought it was permanent. Mr. Feltsman thought it was permanent. Plan was that he would stick to a majority of the schedule Mr. Wagner had given for the running season, but replace a few operas in the second half. _Vampyr_ and _Undine_ were some of these replacements. Mr. Wagner was more fond of staging Lortzing operas.”

“Well, I don't complain about _Undine_ ,” Yuuri sighed.

With Mr. Feltsman now being only responsible for the chorus and Mr. Wagner rather keen on being in charge and control, soon changes came.

The first big change was a note hung up on the announcement board.

Yuuri blinked up at the new daily rehearsal schedule, then exchanged a look with Andreas and finally even with August, who looked just as gobsmacked as Yuuri himself felt. Chorus rehearsal had been pushed back by about two hours. It meant they wouldn't have to show up until ten, which was nice. Less nice was that it now was to be held at the same time as the rehearsal for the soloists.

“Well...” he finally said, “We seem to have something of a problem here.”

“Hard to believe we are agreeing,” Yuuri sighed with another look at the board. “Well. Chorus rehearsal will start in a moment. We can ask what this is about later.”

They went through the rehearsal, most of them focused, some of them absent-minded enough to be bellowed at by Mr. Feltsman. Mostly, the bellowing helped. Some cases were incurable, at least for today.

Rehearsal came to an end.

“So, who's gonna ask him?”, Alexander whispered.

“Not me,” Yuuri declared at once, “forget it.”

“Why not? He likes you, he won't rip your head off,” Johannes hissed.

“Do I look like I wanna risk it?”

“Rehearsal over!” Mr. Feltsman called.

They already could see Sara, Mila and Plisetsky. Soon Anna Herzog would follow and then Johannes Erhardt.

Also Mr. Wagner was showing up.

Mr. Feltsman noticed him and then, with a last, sharp wave, he turned away from them and stalked over to Mr. Wagner.

He was a lot smaller than Wagner, broader in the shoulders. Standing face to face Yuuri was reminded of an angry bulldog trying to go up against a Greyhound.

“Mr. Wagner,” he said.

“Good morning, Mr. Feltsman,” Mr. Wagner greeted him. “What can I do for you?”

“New schedule,” Mr Feltsman said, very visibly boiling. “Why was not discussed with me?”

Mr. Wagner smiled. “Mr. Feltsman, please. I do think you still know your way to my office? It has been so long since you stomped in last time.”

Mr. Feltsman breathed in. And out again. “Will discuss it here and will discuss it now,” he then said. “New schedule concerns singers. Singers shall hear.”

Mr. Wagner didn't stop smiling, although by now it looked somewhat frosty. “Of course. Thank you for reminding me. How thoughtless I can be, it is just terrible.”

Mr. Feltsman seemed to try very hard to not answer to that. He was more or less successful. “Indeed. Why are rehearsal for chorus and soloists at same time?”

Said soloists came closer now. Mila and Sara listened to the exchange with rapt attention.

“I figured it would be the best. I am sorry to not have consulted you, but I was of the opinion that you would be minded likewise. Of course I now see that I was wrong.” He folded his long, thin hands behind his back.

“How would be good idea?” Mr. Feltsman asked.

“Well, both the corps de ballet and the theatre department have spoken to me. Both of them would be most grateful for an additional time slot for them. Of course, both their departments agree with me that the opera is the main draw of this house and the favoured subject of the king and thus deserving of all the attention lavished upon us.” He walked up and down in front of them, waving his finger. “However, I do think we should show our respect to them as well. And how better to do so than by giving them an additional time slot out of our own? Don't you all think so as well?”

“Good gesture,” Mr. Feltsman said. “Still not good plan.”

Mr. Wagner's smile turned into something like a grimace. “How come? It works out perfectly well. After all, since I can turn my full attention to our soloists, you are free to form the chorus into a solid, reliable unit.”

“No need,” Mr. Feltsman said. “Already are. Some good enough for first solo. Need to be in both rehearsals then. Cannot be in two at the same time.”

Mr. Wagner's eyes widened in something that was probably supposed to be surprise. “Oh yes, oh dear! I forgot... the new soloists are all of high quality, I did not think they would still partake in the chorus rehearsals.” He tapped his chin with his finger.

“Thank you for the compliment,” August said. “It speaks of the high quality of the tutelage we could enjoy.”

Maybe Yuuri could still find it in his heart to like the man. At least a bit. On a professional level.

“Well, that is unfortunate.” Mr Wagner nodded. “Of course we cannot possibly demand of any of you to attend to both rehearsals at the same time.” Another nod. Then he said, “I suppose it would be best to promote Mr. Stadler to one of the lead soloists. I know, it is not common practise to do so here with one who is currently singing his first solo role, but we have always been a rather unconventional bunch, haven't we. Now, if we do the same with Mr. Kästner...”

Andreas yelped a little. “What, why?”

“I have heard you during the rehearsals.” Mr. Wagner's smile almost seemed genuine again. “I do think you would make a rather good Heilmann and who knows what else.”

“What?” That had escaped Yuuri without him actually wanting to.

“That not happening,” Mr. Feltsman declared the same moment and both Johannes and Andreas called, “That role's already taken!” with some other chorus singers as support, as well as Mila, Sara and Johannes Erhardt.

Plisetsky stared at Mr. Wagner as if he was doubting his mental facilities.

Mr. Wagner looked around.

Then he shrugged. “Mr. Kästner has a solid voice, a nice gravitas as well. Mr. Katsuki should decide whether he wants to be a tenor or a baritone before he can aspire to have a solo in any capacity and then work very hard to earn it.” He looked to Andreas. “I honestly consider you a fine fit for the role.”

Andreas did not answer immediately. He was thinking about it and Yuuri's stomach was sinking. If he took Mr. Wagner up on that offer Yuuri could not even begrudge him, not entirely. It would be an incredible step up. And it still would be a nasty bit of backstabbing.

“Yuuri worked his ass off to get the part and he got it for a reason,” Andreas said at last. “I am looking forward to earn another solo in the future. It will be an honour to sing with my colleagues.”

Mr. Wagner looked at him and then nodded slowly. “I see.” He turned around. “Well...”

Mr. Feltsman clapped in his hands. “We done here for today. See you tonight!”

The main chorus singers bustled off the stage now, with only Yuuri, Andreas and August remaining.

Andreas turned to Yuuri. “I know you don't really want to, but get a damn solo role in the  _Faust_ , you hear me?! At least take part in the try-out. You have to. And then partake in any try-out we have. Don't let up even once, or he'll drop you off at once.” He clasped Yuuri at the shoulder. “You got that?!”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Yes, I got it.”

“Good. And now let's get our asses through that bit now.”

And again Yuuri only nodded.

 

The next day brought another surprise. It was just about seven, a few of them were still bleary-eyed and shambling a bit. Early working hours, potentially after a long evening on stage, could do that.

And in the middle of that, all of a sudden, there was Mila, waltzing in and looking around cheerily. “Morning!”

Andreas – one of those who were still trying to fight off the short night – perked up immediately. “Morning! Are you coming to listen to us?”

Mila laughed. “Far from it, I'm here to sing.”

“You...” Johannes raised an eyebrow. “You what?”

She nodded, smiling and running a hand over her smooth, fiery hair that was combed and parted and curled as deftly and exquisitely as if she was planning to go to a ball afterwards. “I am a singer after all, right? This is what I do. I sing.”

The singers exchanged a glance and then a grin.

Mila turned to Andreas. “I do hope I am not imposing or anything?”

“Oh no, not at all... I think you would like to sing with the tenors, given that our female singers have left...”

“Regrettable, but understandable,” she sighed. “Not all of us are strong enough to be suited to a demanding life like ours has just become and the chorus is diminished thanks to that. We will have to make do in the meantime, until others join our ranks.”

Mr. Feltsman came, saw her and nodded. “You got your music?”

She smiled at him. “Did I ever not?”

Mr. Feltsman didn't even deign that with a response, which was in itself response enough; he just sighed and waved for her to pick a place for her to sing.

She did.

And they sang.

 

The next morning she was with them again and she was bringing company. Sara, Anna Herzog and Johannes Erhardt peacefully and without comment took places.

More surprising was Plisetsky's attendance.

“What with you?” Yuuri asked. “I would have thought you find Mr. Wagner's suggestion a good one.”

Plisetsky shrugged and then stifled a yawn. Interestingly, though, he looked quite well rested these days. Probably another thing he would have to thank that mysterious Otto Becker for. “I do. I mean, we  _have_ two people responsible now, why not split the workload and save some time along the way?”

“You know Mila is here as a statement of disagreement with Mr. Wagner's idea, though,” Yuuri continued.

“Yeah, she's weird like that.”

“And the others too.”

Plisetsky nodded. “I am aware of that.”

“Hm.” Yuuri nodded and then shot him a curious glance. “So why are _you_ here then?”

“It's still not well-executed. You, Kästner and Stadler are still very attached to the chorus. None of you have yet so many obligations as soloists. You should be soloists full-time soon enough, all of you, yes. But until then you are chorus singers who also work on solo roles. That should be kept in mind when working out new schedules. And first and foremost I am a singer and loyal to other singers, so there is that as well.”

Yuuri nodded. “I see. Thank you.”

“Yuri! Katsuki!” Mr. Feltsman yelled, “Less chatter. More singing!”

They sang and oh, it was a joy to have a few female voices in the chorus again.

When Mr. Wagner came, he took a look at them all. “I appreciate the enthusiasm you all show,” he then said. “But are you all really still chorus singers?”

“Most of us started as chorus singers, some of us officially still are chorus,” Sara said, smiling. “We like the opportunity to go back to our roots and get some additional polishing.”

Mr. Wagner shot her a dark look, but he didn’t say more than, “Enough polishing for now. The real work begins.”

That was that, at least for the moment.

 

The issue of the changed schedule was dropped after that, but of course that didn’t mean much. Mr. Wagner was still the instructor and director for the soloists and he made good use of it; this meant that he more or less systematically went through everything they knew and re-taught it to them, since obviously they had been doing it not quite to his standards all along and this was a condition he most certainly would not abide.

“No, no, Miss Babitch, you have such a nice head voice. Sing with it,” he declared as they went through the _Undine_.

“I know, but when I sing from my stomach I have more volume and body,” Mila tried to argue. Yuuri heard a reasoning she had picked up from Mr. Feltsman a good while ago. “And I would need to sound grounded and real in contrast to a wispy, waifish water spirit.”

Mr. Wagner sighed. “A sound argument, but it wont help your development to pigeon-hole yourself on one way of singing. Now, my dear, do as I told.” He waved. “The scene from the top again!”

The music set in again and Mila, following a heavy and deeply annoyed sigh, sang again. “Um die Wangen traut und der Blätter Weben flüstert süßen Laut.” She sounded thinner now than before. Mr. Wagner nodded along.

Why would he want her to sound like this?

“Leise Wölkchen ziehen,” Sara fell in, as high and clear and transparent as ever, “durch das Himmelszelt. Wie sie weilen, fliehen – immer froh gesellt.”

“So gesellt uns zweie, treu durch Schwestersinn,” they now both sang, “ziehn in froher Weihe durch das Leben hin.”

Their voices had always been quite similar, but right now they were almost impossible to tell apart, especially since Mila's voice was significantly thinner now. Sara drowned her out.

Mr. Wagner sighed. “Ladies, how many more times? Please! Walk a bit more apart, the audience should see both of you! Not to mention that Undine and Berthalda are  _not_ friends. We have discussed that already.”

They had.

Sara and Mila were of a different mind about this and adamantly refused to change said mind and so this discussion had become a staple of their daily rehearsal routine.

“They are friends at this point,” Mila argued, “unless faithful sisterhood means secretly-not-so-secretly hating each other nowadays. In which case I propose a new word for friendships between women.”

A few days before Mr. Wagner – foolishly – had commented on the silliness of the idea that friendships between women could even exist. It had let to their two lead sopranos throwing fits worthy of any Italian diva and storming out in unison. Ever since then Mr. Wagner had been wise enough to not bring up the topic again. Now he looked as if he was biting back a comment on the topic as well.

“They both fight for the same man. While Undine obviously wishes to befriend Berthalda,” Mr. Wagner raised a finger, wagging it in front of them and Yuuri wondered if he saw himself as a school master lecturing them on an opera they all _obviously_ had gotten wrong for so long, “she does so in order to please Huldbrand and to fit in better with humans. Berthalda on the other hand is merely polite to her, but cool. I don't see much friendship there. Please keep that in mind when you sing now again.”

They sighed heavily and then sang again.

Yuuri felt Johannes Erhardt step next to him. “For someone professing how much he admires Mr. Feltsman and the way he taught us, he does try very hard to undo everything, doesn't he?”

Yuuri nodded. “It is evident how much he respects our previous work.”

“You are good, though, lad?” Johannes Erhardt shot him a concerned glance. “He is pretty tough on you, I think.”

Yuuri answered with a terse nod. “He is. I am alright, though. I am tougher than I was.”

“Good to hear.” Johannes Erhardt smiled and then was called to play his role.

Yuuri had only spoken half the truth when he had said that he was alright. He was, for now, but he did feel that he would unravel with time if this went on unchanged.

First was the fact that Mr. Wagner tried to work with Yuuri as little as humanly possible, citing that he was fine. No need for him to overexert himself, he had said. However, whenever he did decide that Yuuri required to be worked with, things looked different by a good bit. Mr. Wagner did the same with him as he did with all of them. Which meant everything Yuuri had taken on under Mr. Feltsman, the way he interpreted his lines, how he acted and reacted to the other people on stage and their character interpretation, was to be respected, of course, Mr. Feltsman had done incredible work, of course, but surely Mr. Katsuki could see why Mr. Wagner would like him to change this line, stiffen his posture, be more imposing?

(Yuuri had laughed at this at first. He was not imposing. It was quite impossible for him to be imposing. “Oh, but you are,” Mr. Wagner had insisted, smiling a slick, slightly oily smile, just shy of being unpleasant, “I have seen you act out Rienzi. You can be very imposing, my dear boy, but of course, this is only me saying this. Who am I to claim something about you when you so heartily disagree with me?” So Yuuri had done his best to be more imposing. As much as the role of a fatherly, kind, gentle priest allowed him to.)

Then of course there had come a slew of directions. “Sing this more from the stomach.” Yuuri had sung from the stomach. “Sing higher. Low notes don't suit you.” Yuuri had sung higher, despite the fact that he had just settled in on the notes.

“Don't be so stiff. Your character is a kindly man. His authority is not wielded like a hammer.” - “Be more authoritative.” - “Don't act like you need to scare Kühleborn away.”

At this point Yuuri was very, very glad whenever a day passed without Mr. Wagner working on him. That was not good, Yuuri knew it.

“That is the whole point,” Viktor said after Yuuri finally mumbled something along these lines to him during one of their lessons, a few weeks after the schedule incident, “You are supposed to not want to work with him anymore. You are supposed to be glad when he is not paying attention to you. You are supposed to not wish to work.”

“I want to work, though,” Yuuri sighed. “Just... just not with him. You understand?”

“I do, love. Trust me, I do. He does not want you to be here. He does not want you to have solo roles. He does not want you to exist, maybe.” He sighed and ran a hand through Yuuri's hair. “You know, I could drop a chandelier on him. It would solve a lot of problems.”

“Do you know what a chandelier that size would cost?” Yuuri mumbled in protest.

“I do. Would be worth it.”

He sighed. Viktor usually could calm him down, had done so for the past few weeks, but the situation was eating on him as well, Yuuri felt it. “No murder until he actively does something that would warrant it,” he said.

“I think his current actions already do warrant it,” Viktor insisted. “But you are right. I am quite fond of the chandeliers we have here. Wagner would not be deserving of the honour of being smashed by one of them.”

He was trying to make Yuuri laugh and Yuuri did him the favour, despite not feeling like it.

“Well. What do you say, shall we continue?” he then asked. “I am still not fully secure with the second aria.”

Viktor nodded and smiled. “As you wish.”

 

Johannes aside, pretty much the entirety of Yuuri's social circle in the chorus had prepared for the try-outs for Louis Spohr's  _Faust_ , which promised to make things interesting. They had discussed this in advance over a few potato dishes and far too many beers for Yuuri's liking, but that was Germany. One had to kind of live with that and pray the aftertaste would not be too bad the next morning.

It was easy, really, they all would try out for certain parts,, but only Yuuri and Alexander would sing for the role of count Hugo, the betrothed of one of the women Faust was madly in love with. Between them, they all agreed that Yuuri would be a better fit for the role of the young, earnest and kind Hugo, who loved his fiancée dearly and was deeply hurt by her falling under the thrall of another man. Viktor had speculated that Yuuri also would make a good Faust, but aiming for the lead role had been a too daunting prospect, given the circumstances. No matter how good he would be, Mr. Wagner would not give him that role. With a smaller, yet still significant part, however, it was easier to see if Mr. Wagner would put his personal prejudices above the skills of his singers.

Yuuri often had to curl his fingers into fists so nobody would notice the shaking of his hands. Right before the try-out he had his hands in fists more often than not.

Rationally Yuuri had no reason for his hands to be shaking, he knew that. He had prepared himself thoroughly. Alexander, too, and they also had sung through the Hugo parts together pretty often. Thanks to this they both knew very well that Yuuri was better suited for the role and Alexander had laughed and sighed. “If he doesn't pick you, then at least we really can blame it on your nose, you know. That's something.”

Yes, that was something.

At least he knew that his friends liked him. They didn't know better. They didn't understand that some of their words cut like hot knives and Yuuri had not the words to express this, never had, not even with Celestino who had always listened, always found the meaning in the jumble and mumble Yuuri would occasionally spew on him.

Celestino had understood a lot. And right now Yuuri wished very dearly he was here.

His friends didn't know better. They didn't understand that every time they commented on anyone – be it Plisetsky as a Russian, Mr. Feltsman as a Jewish Russian or Sara as an Italian – being fundamentally different from them that this extended to Yuuri as well. Yuuri himself sometimes had trouble understanding it.

They didn't mean harm. They didn't mean to hurt. They didn't know better.

The lack of ill intent didn't lessen the hurt of the blow, but it softened the insult Yuuri took personally.

Mr. Wagner was worse in any case, though. He did nothing without purpose starting with the contrary instructions to the veiled insults.

So so on try-out day Yuuri waited through the rehearsal hours and felt his stomach flutter even though he tried very hard to keep the fluttering to a minimum. The last thing he wanted was to vomit just before going on-stage. He was only partially successful. With a still-fluttering stomach he sat at the sidelines and watched and listened as Thomas and Andreas went on stage and sang their parts.

Then Alexander was called on and gave Yuuri a quick grin.

Yuuri managed to smile back and then he leaned back and listened as Alexander introduced himself and announced his bid for the role of Hugo.

Mr. Wagner nodded and waved for him to start singing.

“Hier, meine Freunde, sind wir nah' Der Burg des frechen Räubers,” Alexander began, “Doch nur im Schutz der finstern Nacht Kann uns der Sturm gelingen; D'rum laßt uns hier verweilen.”

He was solid, good even, but as he once had confessed, didn’t really like playing too bashful, hot-headed roles. Something gentler, kinder was more to his taste. He would like to one day sing the Tamino in the  _Magic Flute._

He went through the whole recitative and the following aria that the knight Hugo in part would share with the chorus.

Mr. Wagner listened with polite boredom and as Alexander finished with, “Die Rettung naht, die Rache wacht! Die Liebe siegt, die Freiheit lacht, Bald ist die schöne That vollbracht,” he looked up, cocking his head.

Alexander flinched at the movement.

“Well, that was nice,” Mr. Wagner said. “You worked well on this part. What can you tell me about Hugo?”

Alexander now flinched in earnest. “Well… he’s a jilted lover, but he is willing to forgive his betrothed because he understands the circumstances. I guess.”

Mr. Wagner nodded to that, slowly. “Alright, alright.” He waved. “Next.”

Yuuri got up and in passing he and Alexander exchanged a brief hand slap.

Then he was on stage. “Yuuri Katsuki,” he said, “And I’m trying out for Hugo as well.”

Mr. Wagner raised an eyebrow. “You are sure about this, boy?”

Yuuri had not liked being called that for quite a few years now. Being called “boy” by Mr. Wagner he liked even less.

“Yes.” He nodded curtly and then, with a breath continued, “I don’t recall you asking this question to anyone else who has tried out today.”

“I didn't?” Mr. Wagner smiled. “Oh well. Then please. What are you singing for us?”

The whiff of confidence from before was snuffed out in an instance and it took Yuuri a moment to find his words. “Same as before,” he said.

“Very original,” Mr. Wager said. “I know you are friends with almost everyone, Mr. Katsuki, so I am very surprised you didn't coordinate your choice of song better.”

“It was deliberate,” Yuuri said and wonder of wonders, his voice wasn't shaking. “Mr. Lohre and I thought both you would appreciate the easy comparison and assessment of our skills.”

Mr. Wagner's face remained unmoving.

“I would like to begin now, if I may?”

Mr. Wagner sighed and then waved for him to begin. On Yuuri's wave the piano started to play an introduction. The player wasn't Georgi, he noticed for the first time.

No matter now.

“Hier, meine Freunde, sind wir nah' der Burg des frechen Räubers,” he began, “Doch nur im Schutz der finstern Nacht kann uns der Sturm gelingen!” His voice was stable. Good, the nerves were not affecting his singing too much yet. Very good.

Time to act the knight part. “D'rum laßt uns hier verweilen.” After this order to rest his expression grew more frantic, a mixture of begging and demanding for the day to make room for nightfall soon, so that he may be able to attack the keep where his fiancée was kept from him. “Beflügle den Lauf, zögernde Sonne! Senke dich nieder, schattende Nacht!” Good. He could do this. He sang through the part and then through the aria that Hugo performed alongside the chorus of his knights and courtiers, reassuring his distant love of her impending rescue. “Ja, hoffe, Kunigunde, bald ist die That vollbracht! Bald schlägt die schöne Stunde, wo dir die Freiheit lacht!” He skipped over the part that was sang only by the chorus and went straight to the next bit. “O reichbeglückte Stunde, wo wir uns wiederseh'n, vereint, im süßen Bunde, den Pfad der Liebe geh'n.” Thankfully, the piano player had picked up to the change at once. Good one. It gave Yuuri room to focus on his singing and the emotion behind it.

Yearning. The man was longing to hold his beloved in his arms again and without the chance to make it happen his desire might have very easily driven him mad. “Die Rettung naht, die Rache wacht, die Liebe siegt, die Freiheit lacht! Frohlocke, Kunigunde! Bald schlägt die schöne Stunde, bald ist die That vollbracht!” He raised his hand to mark his resolve - and then bowed.

The music made room for silence.

Yuuri let out a small breath of relief. That had gone better than he would have thought. No blanking out, no nerves, just focus. And he hadn’t been bad either. To his own ears he had sounded decent.

Viktor would probably claim he had been very good before starting to mention anything he deemed ripe for improvement. He could be worse than Mr. Feltsman sometimes and Yuuri loved him all the more for it.

What Yuuri definitely didn’t love was the expression Mr. Wagner had on his face. He looked – not happy for sure, but also somewhat ponderous.

Finally he said, “You lack, it seems to me, the force befitting a knight.”

Yuuri begged to differ. He had, in fact been quite forceful.

Maybe his silent protest had shown on his face, because Mr. Wagner raised an eyebrow. “Or are you of a different mind?”

“I...” Yuuri swallowed. His throat was tightening, threatening to choke him. He took a breath. “I considered Hugo more desperate than forceful for most of the scene, being driven by his desire for Kunigunde.”

Mr. Wagner nodded without looking like he agreed and Yuuri's stomach sunk even further. “It does not do for a heroic knight to be consumed by lust for a woman to such a degree that it impedes his strength.”

“I did not intend for this,” Yuuri said, “I was hoping to convey how he draws strength and resolve from his desire to regain his betrothed.” And then the next words tasted so incredibly bitter on his tongue. “I am sorry I could not do justice to either the music nor my intentions.” Urgh. He needed something to wash out his mouth. Preferably something alcoholic.

“He is supposed to be enraged,” Mr. Wagner said. “Someone stole his woman from him. Weeping and wailing is not the way of a knight.”

Yuuri stood there, silenced by the bitterness in his mouth.

“Nothing to say to that?” Mr. Wagner asked.

The bitterness grew almost unbearable. Yuuri wanted to vomit. Instead, he swallowed. “I am sorry. Of course you have more experience on these matters than me. I bow to your judgement.”

Mr. Wagner still looked unsatisfied, but he nodded slightly and waved. “Next.”

Yuuri left the stage and only when he was in the wing he noticed that he was shaking.

Andreas, Alexander and Thomas stood there, waiting for him, each raising an eyebrow.

Yuuri made a face. “Don't ask. If I say any more I might puke.”

“Thought so.” Andreas gently clapped his shoulder. “Next time warn us beforehand. I almost wanted to grab you and put you to bed, since you were obviously running a fever.”

“Will do so.” Yuuri shook his head. “Blergh. And to think that I still won't get the role for my troubles.”

“Sure about that?” Thomas asked. “Your Hugo was kind of likeable.”

“I was the only one Wagner needled like that, in case you didn't notice,” Yuuri sighed. “Let's face it, he hates my nose.”

“Idiot,” Thomas sighed. “In any case we will hear about it tomorrow.”

“We're done for today,” Alexander sighed. “Drinks?”

“Would love to, but I've got a thing to do,” Yuuri sighed. “See you tomorrow.”

“Girlfriend?”

Close enough, so he nodded.

“Good for you, let her cheer you up,” Andreas grinned as they waved their good-byes.

Hopefully that would be the effect. Yuuri could do with some cheering up today and and so he went to the basement and squatted there.

Viktor came in from a side entrance, having spent the last few hours upstairs, listening to the try-outs.

He looked at Yuuri and smiled, without it reaching his eyes.

Yuuri sighed and got up. “Hello. Sorry.”

Viktor kissed him on the cheek. “Not your fault that Richard Wagner is a terrible person, dear. Do not fret too much.” He took Yuuri’s hand and led him downstairs to his cave.

Yuuri’s singing lesson started and went on without anything out of the norm; Yuuri sang, Viktor made corrections, they discussed the part he had just sung and then he sang some more.

Just that Viktor was not happy about something. Probably the try-out, Yuuri assumed, although he wondered why. Yuuri had sung well and as Viktor himself had admitted - it was not his fault that Mr. Wagner was an idiot. Not to mention that Yuuri had never promised to get a part. All he had promised was to try.

It went by and Yuuri finished with knight Hugo’s aria.

“Frohlocke, Kunigunde! Bald schlägt die schöne Stunde, bald ist die That vollbracht!“

The last note of the violin hung in the air a good long moment after Viktor had put the instrument away. “How do you see Hugo?” He then asked.

“In general or in this scene?”

“Both, actually.”

Good question. Thankfully one Yuuri had spent a not insignificant amount of time and energy thinking about. “He's pretty much your typical heroic lead. Valiant, strong, committed to the woman he loves, probably a bit smarter than the average Tamino or Adriano, though.”

Viktor chuckled at this. “It is not hard.”

“Not really, but he manages. Nonetheless a bit of a hothead, not that I can blame him. I'd be pissed too in his stead.”

“Me too,” Viktor sighed. “As likeable as I find Mr. Chula if you suddenly were to leave me for him – at our wedding day, nonetheless – I would duel him to the death as well.”

It was amusing to hear Viktor talk of wedding days as if that was a possibility for them. Also a bit sad. Also very sweet.

“If he ever slips me a potion to that effect feel very free to do so,” he said. “In the scene I was singing, he is mostly desperate and wishes to be reunited with her. That's what's driving his resolve.”

“Not his wounded pride because his woman got stolen from him?” Viktor asked.

Yuuri shrugged. “As I said, he's a typical hero figure, if a bit smarter than that. So no, I don't think so.”

Viktor nodded. “Your Hugo does sound a lot more interesting than some brute with possession issues.”

“Thank you, I know.”

“Would have been good if Mr. Wagner had heard the same instead of you nodding along with his ideas.”

Oh. So that was why Viktor was grumpy. Yuuri sighed. The bitter taste on his tongue had faded a little, but now it was back, filling his mouth and he had to swallow back the urge to vomit.

“It is your call to make and your decision what to say,” Viktor said, “but I do not have to like it. And my dislike does not have to affect you.”He sighed. “With that said, I do not like how you let him treat you this morning.”

“Me neither,” Yuuri admitted.

“Then why did you let him?”

Urgh. Yuuri felt his stomach churn as he remembered. “I...” Urgh. His throat was tight.

Viktor took his hands and pressed them gently. “Breathe, dear.”

Yuuri breathed. And then sighed. “It's hard enough as it is. He's pretty much constantly looking for ways to get to me. And...” He let out another breath. “It's starting to work.”

“It is only words.” Viktor lifted a hand to his face. “You know that, right? He has only words. He cannot do anything.”

“Could tell me not even the chorus requires me,” Yuuri mumbled.

“I think a significant portion of the chorus – and of the soloists – would beg to differ and then he would have to explain why he had to replace almost the entirety of his performance staff.”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “Now you're exaggerating.”

“I am not, dear.” Viktor ran a few gentle fingertips over Yuuri’s cheek. “You do draw people to you, you know.”

Yuuri’s ears grew warm. “Doesn’t help me with that one, though.”

“Not even you can please everyone,” Viktor said. “And you should not try to force it. It is disappointing and exhausting.”

“I know. And I’m not even trying to please him, you know.” There was a throbbing behind Yuuri’s eyes. Damn the lack of sleep and rest during the last two weeks or so - or longer even. He had hoped for some rest after they were done with _Rienzi_ , but that had of course not happened, at least not so far, and Yuuri had already decided to not hold his breath on this. 

Viktor's hand rested in his hair.

“But... I just... he already finds so much fault with me. I don't want to give him any more reason to attack.”

Viktor's hand curled into his hair far tighter than need be.

“Ow!”

At once the hand loosened.

“Sorry,” Viktor said and then went on, “You should not.”

“Well, what would you suggest I do?” The throbbing behind Yuuri's eyes grew worse by the second. He resisted the urge to pinch his nose. “I already can guess that I won't get a lead role anytime soon again, I'll be lucky if I get any solo at all here, I don't...”

Viktor's fingers ran through his hair again. “Breathe. In. Breathe in.”

Yuuri did so.

“Out.”

Again Yuuri did so and it came out a little easier now. “I... I just want to get through this, I want to come out of it at some point, you know...”

“So no more ammunition for him,” Viktor concluded.

Yuuri nodded.

“So instead,” Viktor continued, voice terribly even, terribly calm, “instead you offer him your back for him to brush his heels clean on?”

The heat and heaviness of exhaustion, of stress and worry and terror rose to Yuuri's head, concentrating behind his eyes, blinding his sight and then welling up and flowing over his face.

“Oh no...”

Yuuri felt Viktor's hands falling off of him. Then, blotted and blurred he noticed a movement as if he was raising an arm again and then the hand was back on Yuuri's arm.

“No, no, I did not mean to...”

He had to breathe. He had to breathe and he couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't cry, he wouldn't, he wouldn't. Yuuri choked – another wave of tears welled up and he violently rubbed his sleeve over his face. Damn it, damn it, damn him, damn him, damn it all, damn him...

“Yuuri, please... I did not...”

Somewhere, somehow Yuuri found his voice again.“I know!” It wasn't even just Viktor. Viktor alone most definitely wasn't it, could never be, but – it was the sum of it all, everything, the last few weeks, the exhaustion, the worry, how would his life here continue?

And now this. Now the idea that he was too weak to not let someone walk over him, Viktor's obvious displeasure of that fact...

Yuuri couldn't anymore, he couldn't smile and nod through it anymore, he couldn't hold it in anymore and he couldn't quite feel his legs anymore and...

Viktor caught him. “Dear, please... please I am sorry... I know you do not want this, I know it is hard, I should not have said that, I am sorry...”

Oh no. Yuuri had shouldered it and had taken it and had prayed that Viktor would not worry for him. Richard Wagner already was a presence in his life, at the theatre that disturbed him, there was no need for him to worry about Yuuri's wellbeing on top of that, no. Viktor had enough on his mind.

“Don't be,” he mumbled. “Please, don't you're not responsible, really...”

Viktor's arms closed around him and he was pulled closer, closer. His hand rand gently, deftly through his hair. “Tell me, love, please. Tell me if there is anything I can do.”

Nothing. Viktor could do nothing, which was just the more reason to keep this mess as far away from him as possible and damn Yuuri for not being able to do so.

Viktor could do nothing. The situation was hell and Viktor could do nothing.

“Be here,” Yuuri mumbled, voice raw that it hurt his ears, “be here. Wait until I'm done crying and if you can, don't...” Don't make it worse, he wanted to say, but that was probably too much to say and too much too ask.

Viktor nonetheless drew him closer, held him, kissed the top of his head.

It was a little easier after that.

Viktor held him. That made it easier for his legs to slip away under him. Viktor caught him and the tears came out and flowed on even long after the worst wrecking sobs had subsided.

Viktor held him. Viktor was with him when the exhaustion was starting to come down on him.

Viktor was with him.

And softly, softly, so soft that Yuuri only heard it when he was already about to slip away, he heard him sing.

 

When he woke up, he found himself in bed, only in his long-johns and under shirt and alone.

The sleeping area was dark but through the paragon Yuuri could see the light of candles and oil lamps.

His head hurt. Too much crying, he deduced and promised to himself to not let go of himself like that again.

Urgh.

He rose, carefully, slowly, and his head hurt from it nonetheless.

He rose, slowly, carefully, the fabric of the sheets rustled that it hurt his ears.

When he dressed – his outer vestments being laid out carefully as if by a man servant –, there was soft talking in the soft, purring language that Yuuri understood to be Russian.

And when he came around the screen, around the barrier, out of the darkness, Plisetsky turned around towards him.

“Ah! There you are!” he called out.

Yuuri blinked and then took off his glasses to rub his eyes. His face still felt awfully tear-crusted.

Plisetsky came up to him. “Whoa, what’s with the long face there? One could think you’d been given the boot of something!”

“Or something,” Yuuri repeated with a yawn. “You're awfully happy.”

“Yeah, I am and you should be too,” Plisetsky said, “or is getting a solo role a reason to be grumpy all of a sudden?”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “What?” There was nothing else he could say to this.

“Yeah. Mr. Wagner wants to announce his casting tomorrow, but I know already that I got a good part and I also know who else got a role!” He grinned, toothy and bright and genuine.

Yuuri felt himself blink. “He gave me a solo.”

“As I say.” Plisetsky's grin grew even wider and then faltered for a bit. “You don't believe me, do you?”

“That is great news,” Viktor said softly from the side, but he didn't sound too happy as well.

Yuuri rubbed his eyes. “Sorry... it's still so early...”

Plisetsky shot him a pointed look that had Yuuri wonder how long he had slept. Hopefully not too long into the day? No, if rehearsals had already started Plisetsky wouldn't be here.

“And he didn't seem too thrilled yesterday with my performance.”

“He is strict, yes,” Plisetsky sighed. “Very demanding. And he does see that you are good, he is just worried about your pressure issues.”

That was one way to put it, Yuuri mused. He also mused that if Mr. Wagner was so worried about Yuuri not being able to withstand the pressure that came with stage work he had a rather strange way of showing it, but he was wise enough not to comment on it.

“Anyways, he picked someone else for Hugo,” Plisetsky said. “Me, he took for the part of Franz. The other guy Faust took the girl from.”

Yuuri nodded. “Alright.”

“For you Mr. Wagner found the role of Faust's friend and companion fitting.”

“The Wagner?” Yuuri asked. The similarity of the names struck him as mildly amusing.

“The same.” Plisetsky grinned again.

It wasn't bad, all things considered. Wagner was a close friend to the title character and had a few memorable lines. He had no solo scenes and no big aria, though. Minor role. The story could survive without his presence in it.

Maybe Plisetsky had seen the look on Yuuri's face. His grin softened into a smile. “He's different than Yakov, I know. I need to readjust back to his style of direction as well. He talked to me and some other regular and lead soloists about the casting. He said about you that you do have some potential, but your stage fright is a problem, that's why he didn't want to give you a part at first. Mila and Johannes argued pretty heavily in your favour and Sara was throwing something of a fit, I swear, the only thing that keeps her from being a full-blown diva is the fact that she knows we consider her a saint and she works very hard to maintain that image.”

“Are you suggesting that Sara is not the sweet, innocent young maiden we all took her for?” Viktor asked mildly.

“Eh.” Plisetsky shrugged. “She's been pretty bitchy lately on occasion. I mean, for her it's bitchy, from anyone else it would be still a model of sweetness.”

Viktor chuckled at that.

“In any case, Mr. Wagner listened to what we had to say and then agreed that you should get a chance to further work on your stage fright by just confronting it – I mean you can deal with it pretty well right now, he's overly careful, really.” He babbled on a bit, enough for Yuuri to get an idea of how ardently certain people must have spoken in his favour.

He most definitely owed another bottle of champagne to Mila and Sara (preferably before Mila would come to him and mostly-jokingly mention that Yuuri owed her really big now). And something nice to Mr. Erhardt. Maybe a good brandy. Although Johannes Erhardt was the sort of person who would refuse a present if it was only for him. So probably another bottle of champagne for him to enjoy with his dear wife. He wouldn't say no to that.

“You put in a word for me as well, then?” he finally asked.

Plisetsky nodded. “Yes, of course. It would have been totally unfair otherwise. I mean, you  _are_ good, and he knows that, he heard you in  _Rienzi_ , he has to know that. And in case he has forgotten he should be reminded of it.”

“Thank you.”

“No need.”

“There was no need for you to speak for me, so yes, thank you.”

Now Plisetsky's ears turned red. “It's nothing. I happen to like singing with people who know their stuff, you know.” He shot a pointed look in Viktor's direction.

Viktor turned around and went to his desk. “That reminds me, I got something for you.” He rummaged through some papers and handed one to Plisetsky. “Do you think you can work with that?”

Plisetsky took a glance. “I'll look at it this afternoon, yes?”

“Take your time, it is only a first draft, but I would like to have your opinion.”

Plisetsky tucked the piece of paper away and turned his attention back to Yuuri. “And besides, we're in this together, right? We're on the stage together, we should stick together otherwise as well. Makes life easier for us all.”

Viktor, again, chuckled. “I usually hear this talk only among the stage hands.”

Again Plisetsky flushed a rather interesting shade of deep red and he looked at his hands. Thus he missed the triumphant grin on Viktor's lips. “Anyways. You got the role. Work it. When Mr. Wagner sees that his trust in you was justified he will give you bigger parts again as well and... yeah. Eat and... your rehearsals start in a bit, so... I...” He waved. “I'm up. Bye.”

“Bye,” Yuuri said and then added, “and thank you for telling me.”

Once more Plisetsky waved and then he was gone. Only his steps resounded as he stomped away.

“I like this Otto Becker more and more without ever having met him,” Viktor commented. “Have you?”

“Not really. I've seen him, but never talked with him,” Yuuri confessed. “He seems alright. Somewhat quiet. Which makes the picture of Yura with him actually pretty funny.”

“That too. And it is good. People are susceptible to be influenced by people they fancy. It is good that Yura seems to fancy someone decent. Otherwise I might need to consider having a chandelier drop on his head.”

Yuuri chuckled. “No, you won't, if only because I ask you not to.”

Viktor sighed as if in regret. “Anything for you, sweetheart.”

“Thanks.” Yuuri sighed. “It would be too much to hope for things to get easier now, huh, now that I got so many mighty and powerful people having my back?”

Viktor laughed without much amusement in his voice. “Most certainly. He will make your life hell, you know that, right?”

“I've grown up in Milan,” Yuuri reminded him. “To be honest, not that I missed all that scheming and backstabbing, but I think I might feel at home at last once it's actually back in my life again.”

Viktor shot him a bemused glance. “I have not taken you for the kind who is good at manoeuvring intrigues.”

“I am not,” Yuuri said, “but I am used to them and know how to avoid them for the most part, that is worth something as well.”

“In any case I can still drop a chandelier on his head, right?”

Yuuri sighed. “Only if I explicitly ask you to, alright?” He promised to himself to most definitely  _not_ ask Viktor, not even as a joke. Yuuri had no idea whether he might take him seriously and Yuuri had no intention of finding out whatsoever.

“Alright,” Viktor agreed.

“Don't think I'll ever ask, though. I can deal with that stuff and hopefully we won't have to worry about Yura's development so much anymore, so – it might not be that bad.”

Viktor's eyebrow quirked upwards. “Sure about that?”

Truth was, Yuuri was not.

He still nodded.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I never thought I'd be researching for a history/Opera story - what sort of herbal/spice oil would make a fun lube. 
> 
> Enjoy the Wagner drama.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri is stressed out. Yakov is stressed out. The resident sopranos are stressed out. Wagner is stressing them out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand we're back to our regular update schedule. NaNo! Is! OVER! And I won.
> 
> And with that... story time.

Chapter 19

 

Things tend to have a certain way of devolping when you are sure they possibly cannot get much worse. Usually that way means that things get very much worse. Sometimes this also means that things are already very bad and continue to be very bad for a long time rather than getting better in any way.

In Yuuri's case it was the latter.

The few times Mr. Wagner had Yuuri sing his part in  _Undine,_ he was not happy with him. “You don’t seriously call this a baritone, I hope?” was the most common comment Yuuri heard, “You do know how weak and thin you sound, right? Who even trained you?!”

Yuuri made it a habit to wear the corset for the rehearsals, just to see if Mr. Wagner would notice a difference. He most definitely heard one. Mr. Wagner didn’t seem to, though, and the endless stream of complaints continued.

Yuuri had never fared well under pressure. Celestino of course had understood that and had tried his best to ease Yuuri’s troubles as much as he could (which in hindsight might not have been the best idea, but in hindsight few things are). Feltsman had found out about it and he had understood as well without taking all of the pressure away. It had helped. A lot, even. At this point Yuuri was fairly positive that he was getting the hang of his stage fright.

This, however, could in no way have prepared him for a director who was constantly picking on him.

It wasn’t getting worse than before, but it was going on and Yuuri soon developed some panic whenever he saw that godawful beret dancing around a corner and heard Mr. Wagners voice despite it rarely ever rising above a soft whisper. Mr. Feltsman’s hoarse bellowing had never caused this reaction in him.

Also his – admittedly slightly fear-tinted – respect for Mr. Feltsman had never caused Yuuri’s mind to go entirely blank when he was supposed to sing his roles.

Now, during rehearsal he stood there, August leaning against a pole as they were going through the dialogue where Huldbrand mourned the loss of his dear Undine, whom he himself had driven away.

They had sung this so often, Yuuri knew the words by heart now and he knew how to react to August's Huldbrand mourning the loss of his beloved and his inability to turn back.

“Halt fest, mit Seel' und Leib halt fest am strengen Wort der Treue!” were the words. Yuuri knew them, he knew the moment he had to set in, he also knew he was supposed to walk up to August, place a hand on his shoulder, being comforting, supportive, trying to get through to him.

Yuuri walked up to August.

He placed a hand on his shoulder.

And then Mr. Wagner down in the auditorium, looking up to them, smiled.

And Yuuri's mind went blank.

What were the words?

August looked up to him.

The words wouldn't come.

And finally the music died.

Mr. Wagner rose from his seat. “Oh my. You look awfully pale, are you alright?”

Something in Yuuri's stomach recoiled at Mr. Wagner's voice. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to run.

He stayed. His mouth remained shut.

Mr. Wagner sighed. “I had hoped you have recovered from whatever ailment is plaguing you, dear lad.”

“I am...” Bile rose up in his throat and he swallowed. “Sorry. Sorry.”

Again Mr. Wagner sighed. “I would say that this is just a bad day and order you to go home and get some rest, but you have not performed too well the last few days in general.”

Yuuri knew that. That he knew that didn't help matters much, though. It made him just angrier that he was apparently proving Mr. Wagner's initial assessment of him and his skills right, giving him just the more reason-

“You were a decent Rienzi, as I have witnessed,” Mr. Wagner said, “and you can be good in the Heilmann role, I have been told, although I have yet to witness you giving a performance that is even remotely satisfying.” He nodded. “I wonder if your previous successes are in fact not entirely owed to some source material that is simply impossible to mess up entirely regardless of talent or skill.”

What?

The pit of nausea in Yuuri's stomach was filling up with something white-hot, scalding, blinding – he bit down on it.

Mr. Wagner was still looking at him. “What do you say, Mr. Katsuki?”

Breathe. Breathe, he had to breathe, even though his throat felt on fire, like he would scald everyone around them the moment a gust of air escaped his mouth. He breathed. “I'd say we start from the top.” His voice scratched against his throat; such an ugly feeling.

Mr. Wagner's gaze turned to August. “Mr. Stadler, what do you say? Would it be of use to give him another try?”

Oh, great. Yuuri sighed inwardly. August hated him. Also August revelled in any bit of acknowledgement Mr. Wagner gave him. Yuuri could consider his case closed.

August glanced at him. “Eh. Why not.”

What?

Yuuri blinked at him.

August shrugged. “It's not like he will show some sudden hidden talent anyways, so we might as well amuse ourselves.”

Ah. Yuuri's world slipped back into place. And here he had thought August had finally discovered the joys of camaraderie.

Mr. Wagner sighed. “Ah well. I figure we won't loose too much time on it anyways.”

Again white-hot fire rose in Yuuri's throat. That wasn't good, he had to be compassionate, kind, comforting – insisting.

The piano played again.

Yuuri still felt the anger burning, but no, that was not the way to go about this, not at all.

So when the music rose and his moment came he was there, a hand on August's shoulder as if they were already deeply in conversation. “Halt fest, mit Seel' und Leib halt fest am strengen Wort der Treue!” he urged, his anger turning to firm gentleness. Strange how easy emotions could be transformed to express something entirely different.

August blinked at him. Apparently he had not thought Yuuri would recover. “Wer nicht von blöder Täuschung lässt,” he then said, insisting on not revisiting his sweet love with Undine, rather staying in his union of Berthalda, “Den fasst die bittre Reue.”

Good, that was good. “Lebt Dir nicht noch im Herzen hold Erinn'rung süßer Tage?” Yuuri asked, begging whether there really was no fondness for Undine left in Huldbrand.

It was. And it was intermingled with regret. “Die Jugend sieht, die Luft verrolle vor ernstem Stundenschlage.”

How regret, remorse, grief, mourning had changed the great, self-assured knight. “Du bist ein andrer ganz und gar mit deiner bleichen Miene,” Yuuri's Heilmann thus observed, digging into the wound he had struck with his first question.

“Wohl ruft es in mir immerdar,” August admitted how his wife still called for him, “Undine, ach Undine!”

“So kehr' zurück,” Yuuri begged and August turned away.

“Bethör' mich nicht,” he begged, “Es ist einmal beschlossen. Was einer rät,” he continued, in duet with Yuuri, “was einer spricht, der Zukunft Saaten sprossen.” It was decided. He would marry Berthalda and cast aside any thought of Undine forever.

The music changed into cheerful triumph, courtiers streamed on the stage, Berthalda and both her noble adoptive parents leading them, while her humble birth parents hung a good bit behind the group.

“Herzen erschließen sich fröhlich vertraut; freudiges Grüßen für Bräut'gam und Braut,” they sang.

The fisherman and his wife reminisced about their water sprite daughter, realizing her presence at the wedding.

Kühleborn talked to them, setting up the dread of what would happen in the final scene, just before said scene occurred.

Yuuri in the meantime had retreated into the wings, watching as it played out and as the music died.

Mr. Wagner nodded. “Yes, yes, fine. Mr. Katsuki!”

Urgh. Again the nausea, but it was already intermingling with the anger that had flared up before.

Andreas glanced at him. “Whoa,” he whispered, “Really don't wanna meet you after nightfall right now.”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “What?” But he didn't wait for Andreas' answer. Mr. Wagner had called for him, It was probably better to follow.

“Mr. Wagner?”

The man in question was sitting in his seat again and he was smiling up to him.

Once again Yuuri’s stomach lurched.

“I am pleasantly surprised that apparently you can be capable of giving a performance after all.”

And again there was the anger, a tight coil heating and hardening his insides again after they had started to dissolve again.

“What do you mean by that?” He asked.

“Your nerves have gotten the better of you quite a lot lately. There is hardly a rehearsal where you don’t have trouble.”

Yuuri wanted to point out that he did very well in chorus rehearsal, but Mr. Wagner probably would have loved to jump at the chance to officially demote Yuuri back to chorus singer; after all, he liked it so much there, right? He drew in a deep breath and his shoulders went up a little. “I think if you asked Mr. Feltsman, he will confirm to you that I was remarkably stable when working under him on a solo.” That one time he had failed the try-out for  _Wildschütz_ , but that didn't constitute as working on a role and his mental stability had improved ever since. Well, at least until Mr. Wagner had showed up, but that was another thing for another day.

Mr. Wagner smiled. “Well, Mr. Feltsman was always rather mellow. Always giving yet another chance, always forgiving. It might ease one's nerves a little, but in the long run it won't help to carry on a singer who cannot perform without flaws.”

Yuuri had to remind himself to breathe. Apparently Mr. Wagner had never paid attention to any night  _Undine_ was performed on stage so far.

Then again, why would he. He had not been at the helm of the production, so there was little reason for him to pay attention to it. So he only saw Yuuri during rehearsal, not that he gave Yuuri ever too much time to work on his role.

Yuuri should have worked better here.

Also, maybe he shouldn't have been giving Mr. Wagner so much attitude. But still. But still. He took another deep breath. “So far there have been no reports of me failing to give a performance – or giving an underwhelming one for that matter.”

Mr. Wagner looked unimpressed. All Yuuri got was a slight nod. “Well then, my dears, we are done for today. Do well at tonight's performance. Goodbye.” With that he rose from his chair and turned his back on him.

Sara huffed. She as well had seen rather little time spent on her practising and rehearsing, despite the fact that she was the lead singer of  _Undine_ and most definitely either Kunigunde or Röschen – Faust's two paramours – in the  _Faust_ opera. Although there were rumours that Mr. Wagner was thinking about changing up his roll-call again. Did that mean Yuuri would loose the Wagner role too? If yes, it was probably deserved. Mr. Wagner this or that, Yuuri's performance during rehearsals as of late had been abysmal.

He sighed and exchanged a glance with her.

“Wonderful rehearsal, huh?” she asked.

“Truly magnificent.” Yuuri rolled his eyes. “Don’t we all love to be scared into silence until all left that‘s in us is a rather potent mixture of anger and fear, both just waiting to be vomited up?”

“Hey!” Mila laughed, softly as to not stress out her voice. “No bitching, yes, not from you! We don’t need two guys with the same name bitching, how are we supposed to tell you apart?”

Yuuri shrugged. “One has a potty mouth, the other one screws up half the time.”

“And then does pretty good, because something pissed him off enough,” Plisetsky commented. “Told you.”

Yuuri couldn't quite remember what Plisetsky was referring to. He had told him so many things during the last months.

“Anger is great to fuel you through something and trust me when I tell you that spite is the best motivator ever to excel.” He grinned.

Yuuri smiled weakly. “Don't think I excelled too much today.”

“Yeah, but you got better than before.” Plisetsky shrugged. “That's important. You can't get good without working your ass off and I worked my ass off because some of the other, older singers back there claimed I was only picked for my pretty face. Some of the house servants had the gall to suggest the same.” He made a face. “Only way to get back to them was to be good and be really good, so hard work it was. And they pissed me off enough that it wasn't even too exhausting as well.”

“Yes,” Yuuri sighed, rubbing his temple. “I was pretty pissed. Gave me some fire, yes.”

“See?!” Plisetsky grinned. “It's great, right?”

“On short term, yes,” Yuuri nodded, “But honestly, as a general method I think it must be quite exhausting. Anger eats up more energy than it gives, in the long run. Please remember, I have two panic attacks scheduled per day. No room for loosing my temper as well as my nerves.”

Plisetsky shrugged at this. “Suit yourself, then.”

 

Mr. Wagner was picky with whom to work more intensely in order to nurture young and new talent, as he claimed a few days later. Most of the singers didn't make the cut and were not deemed worthy of any extra attention bestowed upon them. “It is time we focus more on our home grown talents. Our foreign talents are fine and good, but by now I think it is quite enough. Time to focus on ourselves again and get rid of most of the degeneration that has already started to spread. Thank goodness I had the good sense to have very detailed plans for the next few seasons already that were well-followed. At least some German spirit has survived long enough to now fight back against these foul influences.”

Yuuri had turned to Thomas to softly whisper, “Maybe my German is not good enough to understand him, but – what is he talking about?”

Thomas had turned to him and, just as softly, whispered back, “Jews and other folks, but – I mean, he means Mr. Feltsman, but – I mean, what's the deal about him? Mr. Feltsman's good.”

Mr. Feltsman was good, he had done good work with them and they all knew it and most of the chorus loved working under him.

Still, Yuuri remembered how some of them had nodded along with Mr. Wagner's words and it had left his stomach churning and curdling. Jews and other folks – that included him as well. Maybe not now, not yet, but the solidarity of his group would not protect him forever, he knew, and he dreaded the day when it would not be enough anymore.

Mila was one of the singers Wagner worked the most with. She didn't like it at all, often complaining about feeling like an overworked mule, although she never dared to say so to Mr. Wagner's face, but he often enough caught her complaining to Sara about it. “It's not fair,” she declared once, when she thought nobody around, “You are the primadonna of the house, he should really work more with you.”

“He tries to further your talent,” Sara, leaning against a beam post argued in the tired tone of one who had gone over this argument time and again before. “Others would be grateful for that chance.”

“But not at your expense!”

Sara lifted her hand. “Not so loud, dear, people will hear us.”

It occurred to Yuuri that maybe he should not be eavesdropping.

Mila took a deep breath. “I will be grateful,” she then said, “the day Mr. Wagner supports and nourishes all talent in the house equally.”

“Sweet thought,” Sara sighed, a smile in her voice. “Thank you. But ultimately useless, I fear. He will not listen to you just because you are his new darling.” She shrugged, placing her hand on Mila’s arm. “It might be for the best anyways. I originally hadn’t planned to stay here as long as I did.”

No, Yuuri definitely wasn’t supposed to hearing this.

“What do you mean?”

“I thought about staying here for maybe two years, not three and a half, but…” Sara laughed softly. “Then you happened. And I stayed and stayed and stayed. And my career flourished and then you started to blossom and...” She sighed. “I can go back to Italy, you know. I have a big name there and you have no contestant here.”

Huh. Celestino would be happy to get his hands on that bit of information, Yuuri was sure.

“I can come too, I hope?” Mila asked.

Sara shook her head and her dark, silky hair rustled over the fabric of her dress. “You'd have to start over, all from scratch, and you'd have to drastically improve your Italian while doing so, and...” She sighed. (Really, Yuuri should not be listening to this, really not, really, really not.) “Would you be able to take that? Could you take that after your life had just started here?”

Mila was silent for a few moments. Then she said, “So you want me to stay while you go?”

Sara sighed. And then Yuuri saw her head move in something that looked a lot like a nod and at the same time like she was denial about something.

And finally Mila asked, “So what does that mean?” She didn't add “for us“, but it hung in the ear thickly enough for even an outsider or an eavesdropper to hear.

Yuuri, finally turning around and slinking away, wondered whether he should talk to Sara. Celestino had mentioned that he would be ready for quite a few conditions the famed primadonna might have for him to accept his offer.

Not now, though. Not now. He would have hated to be found out as someone who sneaked up on other people's conversations.

He stepped back the moment Mila started to rush past him.

Sara sighed, turned and saw Yuuri, shooting him a quizzical glance.

Damn it. Damn it, damn it.

Even more worthy of damn it was the fact that Sara was coming right at him.

“You heard that, huh?” she asked. So she definitely had caught on on him eavesdropping.

Yuuri winced. “In my defence, it wasn't on purpose.”

“I know.” Sara sighed.

Yuuri didn't quite know what to say, but, “So, you're leaving?”

“I am thinking about it. No future here, to be honest.” Then she switched to Italian. “For me, at least. Mila… if she plays her cards with Wagner well, she will get one big role after another and she would take the audience in a storm. She’s so…”

Good. Hard working. Talented. Yuuri saw how each word wandered through Sara’s head and how each was deemed insufficient.

“She's not the sort of person who likes stepping over others to get ahead?” Yuuri gently pointed out. “You know her better than me, but I'm pretty positive about that.”

Sara sighed. “It's not stepping over others – or over me, if that's what you are saying. It's about what she can do to get ahead and get a chance to show off how great she is, that's all, and I would very much like her to  _not_ throw away her opportunities on a whim.” She made a face as if she wanted to say more, but didn't. Maybe she would have if they had been in the relative privacy of either of their dressing rooms (which would probably never happen, because scandalous rumours in a theatre popped up faster than snow drops in spring and they both could do without them.) Most definitely Sara would have said more in the safety of her and Mila's home, but they were here.

He nodded softly and she breathed out in relief of being understood.

Viktor had been right when he had said that it would be good if Phichit would still remain his friend even after finding his affections rejected. Some things needed to be talked about with someone who understood. And with most of these things and under most circumstances the best way to communicate was obtuse silence shared with someone who knew how to read it. It was just a pity that there had to be silence at all.

Silent company, though, was still better than no company at all.

“If I can help,” he thus offered, but Sara shook her head.

“I appreciate the offer, dear, but this has nothing to do with you. There is nothing you can do.”

 

Sara was not entirely right in that. Yuuri most certainly could not fix the mess that was Richard Wagners continued presence at the theatre, nor could he grant Mila a brilliant career in Italy to put Sara's worries to rest. However, there was nothing keeping him from writing a letter to Celestino directly, right? It was overdue anyways.

So this was what he was doing the next morning after breakfast, borrowing Viktor's desk and a few sheets of paper as well as some drops of inks.

_Dear Celestino,_

_please don't think I have forgotten all about you, for nothing could be further from the truth._

He paused, looking for the right words for a moment.

_Things have been stirred up quite a bit lately. I already wrote to you about the try-outs for_ Undine  _and that I indeed got the part of Pater Heilmann, which I am - I hope - justly proud of._

_Even more reason for indulging in pride is the fact that the theatre staged a private performance of Richard Wagner's_ Rienzi  _with me in the title role. You can imagine how hard Mr. Feltsman made us all work for it. But it paid off and the show went over well with the Saxonian king and his guests._

Yes, the guests. He sighed.

“Everything alright?” Viktor asked from his chaise-lounge and over his book.

Yuuri shot him a smile. “Yes.” And then he turned his attention back to the letter.

_One of these guests was a rather big surprise. We all had been under the impression that Mr. Wagner, the previous head director of the Royal Court Theatre of Dresden, had been relieved and retired from his position permanently. However, as it turned out we all have been wrong._

_For several weeks now Mr. Wagner has been back and it has been an exhausting time. I doubt I could withstand it on my own, but thankfully by now I have found quite a few friends here. Their camaraderie and company goes a long way to keep up my spirits. It is such a marked difference from Milan and I will forever be grateful for you insisting that I leave Milan. Not even Mr. Wagner's presence – which, I am sure, is as galling to you as it is to me – will never change that I am happy to have been given this chance. The people I met here – one in particular – are the reason I will gladly stay in Dresden, no matter how hard it will get._

Alright, now he was overly optimistic. Time to take a few steps back now.

_Not everyone I have become friends with is of the same disposition, though. Miss Sara Crispino is of a mind of leaving Dresden, as is her friend Miss Mila Babitch. Miss Mila is a new soloist here, having sung a small role in the_ Magic Flute _and then bigger parts in pretty much every opera we staged here since I arrived. Mr. Wagner, too, thinks highly of her, but the feeling does not appear to be mutual. Mostly, Miss Mila is angry about the way Mr. Wagner ignores Miss Sara a lot of the time. These two are thick as thieves, if you see one of them the other is not far and both of them perform best when singing opposite of each other. Miss Sara was friendly and kind to me from the start and both she and Miss Mila are good friends of mine by now. Of Sara Crispino's talent I need not to speak, you are aware of her. Miss Mila is a soprano of her range, but shows a different colouring in her voice. I am sure you will find her both interesting and a delight to work with._

_I am mentioning her to you so you can approach Miss Sara accordingly. You mentioned that you would be glad if she was to agree to sing at the Scala._

Yes, good. If the letter got to Celestino quickly enough he would know to pen a note to Sara at once, before she would have left Dresden already.

_Miss Sara would only have to name her conditions and you would see them fulfilled, you said, albeit half in jest, I am sure. But be informed now that Miss Sara probably has only the condition that you offer Miss Mila the chance to prove herself to be as capable at the Scala as she is here in Dresden._

_Knowing her that is probably her main condition and with her payment she will be the most agreeable person you have ever dealt with. And considering I am recommending Miss Mila to you, I am sure that you won't regret deciding in her favour._

_Otherwise I am doing somewhat well. I try my best not to take Mr. Wagner's rather obvious dislike for my person too hard; we both know how little this has always served me. Instead I try to focus on the good._

_Mr. Feltsman remains in charge of the chorus. Most of the soloists are very open about their support of him and I am sure you would be warmed by the fervour with which most of them support Mr. Feltsman._

_With that I bid you farewell and hope that this letter may find you in good health._

_With much love,_

_Yuuri Katsuki_

He sighed, folded the papers and shoved them into the envelope he had brought with him, designation and stamping already applied. He would stop by the post office today in his break between rehearsals; it was only two streets down from here, something he could do in maybe 10 minutes.

Again, Viktor looked up. “Is everything alright?”

The reason he was still sticking it out. Yuuri managed a smile. “Yes, I'm perfectly fine.” He stretched a bit; writing the letter had taken the better part of an hour and his shoulders were a bit cramped. “What time is it?”

Viktor fumbled a bit before pulling out a small pocket watch. “Oh dear,” he sighed. “It is almost eight, you should hurry.”

“Argh, no!” With a rush he grabbed the envelope and stuffed it into his pocket before he hurried to jump into his waistcoat and jacket. 

Rehearsals were starting at a quarter past eight and Yuuri had made a point of being upstairs some time before that, whether or not Plisetsky accompanied him. He had always been there a bit earlier than the other singers and it would only draw suspicion to him if he now suddenly came in in the nick of time without appearing rushed, especially if he did it every day.

“I'll be back in the afternoon, yes?”

“Alright.” Viktor stretched and straightened up to reach Yuuri for a kiss.

Yuuri quickly pressed his lips on Viktor's.

“Don't let him bother you too much, dear,” Viktor whispered and Yuuri chuckled. “Huh? Who? August? Yura? Mr. Feltsman? As if any of them bother me... well, maybe August, when he's in a particularly talkative mood.”

Viktor placed a hand in his neck. “Wagner.”

“Oh. Him.” Yuuri sighed. “I'll do my best.”

“I know you do.” Once more Viktor brushed his lips against Yuuri's. “You always do.”

 

Doing his best not to let Mr. Wagner not get to him was not always enough and it most certainly was not enough today.

When the rehearsal for the soloists was done and dealt with and he finally could slip downstairs to Viktor's cave, Yuuri felt underworked, irritated, five kinds of worthless and in general not in a too pleasant mood.

He wasn't paying too much attention on his way down, he wasn't paying too much attention to the way the cave was lit up, he was only paying attention to the fact that Viktor sat on the dinner table and looked up to him when he stumbled in.

“It was bad, I take?” he asked and Yuuri, grateful for the understanding, just stumbled towards him and let himself fall against him and into his arms.

Viktor wrapped himself around him, pulling him down and onto his lap and Yuuri closed his eyes, too exhausted, frustrated, wound down, wound up, too much of everything to talk.

Viktor's presence helped, though. After a while he felt his shoulders unclench.

Viktor ran a hand through Yuuri's hair. “Very bad then, huh?”

He still couldn't find words, so he just grunted something that probably sounded like a confirmation.

“I guessed as much. You are not the only one done in by him today.”

Yuuri now looked up, only now noticing Mr. Feltsman sitting on the table as well.

“Nor are you the first today to come down to get away from him.”

Yuuri was too exhausted to feel embarrassment over the way he had basically dropped into Viktor's lap, nor the fact that he still was sitting there and Mr. Feltsman didn't seem to care too much.

They just exchanged equally weary glances and then Mr. Feltsman poured a clear liquid from a bottle into a small glass in front of him and emptied the glass with one hearty swig.

“Worse than the last one, you are,” he finally sighed.

Viktor's arms tightened around Yuuri's waist and he gently commented, “Chris was never through with his nerves because of...” He moved his head in lieu of his hands, “that one. Also, you walked in on us a few times, so I still maintain that Chris is, on your list, in your words,  _the worst_ of my liaisons.”

“Not reminding,” Mr. Feltsman sighed. He poured another drink and pushed it to Yuuri. “There. Drink. Need it.”

Yuuri wondered if he really should. Alcohol had never been an approach to solving his problems, not to mention that he hadn't eaten very much today. Getting drunk was most definitely not something he should do in front of Mr. Feltsman if he wanted the man to keep on respecting him at least somewhat.

“Drink,” Mr. Feltsman insisted, though, and so Yuuri obliged and took the glass.

The liquid had no real smell like wine or beer had, only giving off a somewhat floating, light sensation to his nose, and when he emptied the glass in one swig it was tasteless, but burned when he swallowed.

He shuddered.

“Eh,” Mr. Feltsman sighed. “Only grain spirit. Wish it was vodka, too, but no getting it here.”

He poured a drink for Viktor, who downed it without flinching. 

Finally he took another for himself. “Bad. Bad. Just had chorus under control and in line – now chaos again. You know how it was before, boy?”

Yuuri shook his head.

“He picks favourite. He heats up favourite.” This wasn't a proper German phrase, Yuuri was sure, but then again, he was not native to the language either and he was to tired to comment on it. “He heats up favourite and puts favourite against other singers. And chorus is in chaos. And I lose promising singers because they cannot handle the way things are.” He shot Yuuri a sardonic glance. “Would have lost you. You value nerves and remaining sane. You would have left if things had been different in May.”

“I...” Oh god, Yuuri's voice sounded just plain awful. How had he gotten through today like that? “I... I am not leaving.”

Mr. Feltsman nodded. “Good. Congratulations, you stick it out now. But would have lost you if he had been here in May. Lost many singers who could have been good. Many. Man not good with inexperienced and insecure new singers.”

Now something like a laugh, coarse and raw and painful, bubbled up in Yuuri's throat and out of his mouth like a ball of thorns. “I couldn't help but notice.”

Now Mr. Feltsman took another close look at him. “Look like shit,” he then stated, “you do.”

Yuuri let his head loll back a bit and leaned it against Viktor's. “I know.” God, his temples were throbbing.

Viktor pressed a kiss on the line of his jaw. “Well, on the upside, Yura does seem to hang around,” again he only moved his head, “him a lot less than we feared.”

So they were not saying the name then? Silly, but alright, fine with Yuuri.

“Is already enough,” Mr. Feltsman said. “Is already too much. Never said something when – that one – talked about Jews and how we sully arts and culture and not deserve living.”

Mr. Feltsman was right, Plisetsky had never said anything about or against Mr. Wagner's rants – and the rants, much like his needling of both Yuuri and Sara, had become ever more frequent in the last few weeks. 

And most of them he had held towards his singers.

Yuuri had heard them. Plisetsky had heard them.

Yuuri had seen Plisetsky's face when he had heard them.

“I don't think he agrees with any of what – he – says.” It was stupid not calling Richard Wagner by his name. What was he, a demon from hell to be summoned by speaking of him? “He looked angry, even. Either angry or... shocked the first few times.”

“That sounds good. Or at least not bad,” Viktor said. “Maybe he is about to wise up.”

“Would mean he is smart,” Mr. Feltsman said. “Is not. Is Russian. We are Russian. Russians are many things. Smart not one of them.”

Viktor nodded to that, solemnly. “Da,” he sighed, “my smartest decisions were only ever related to my lovers.”

Now Mr. Feltsman barked out a laugh. “Ha! You once decided backstage with ballet practising on stage was good time for-”

“The smartest,” Viktor quickly interrupted him, “I never said smart. Only the smartest.”

Mr. Feltsman made a face. “That Count. His name?”

“In all fairness, I never really considered him my lover, only someone I slept with on occasion in exchange for money and attempts to further my career. “

“Your lover,” Mr. Feltsman said.

“That would imply I only went to bed with him because I wanted to and that was in question the moment he started paying me my allowances.”

Yuuri felt Viktor's arms around his waist. That was not a good topic to talk about for him.

Carefully he lifted his hand and ran his fingers through Viktor's hair and over the side of his neck.

Viktor looked at him and even managed a grateful smile. “And also, not only would I consider Yuuri my smartest decision yet, but a smart decision in general.”

Mr. Feltsman pulled a face – and then mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “for once in agreement”.

“So,” Viktor sighed, running a hand up and down on Yuuri's waist, “what can be done about the situation? Can you file a complaint?”

Mr. Feltsman snorted.

“Well, maybe not you alone, but the former lead conductor – what was his name again?”

“Sperling, Robert Sperling,” Mr. Feltsman said. “His father is gentile. But mother was Jewish. Makes him Jewish too, arguably.”

“His complaints being heard is as unlikely as yours,” Yuuri sighed.

Mr. Feltsman nodded grimly. “And is annoyed too. He...  _he_ likes show up when orchestra works with him.”

“Like he does with the chorus,” Yuuri grumbled. “It's almost as if he wants to take over the whole theatre by himself.”

“Not almost,” Mr. Feltsman sighed. “Is that. He wants control back to himself.” Another drink followed. “If you smart, boy, you leave soon. Of course, you consider not just yourself.” He poured another drink for Viktor. Viktor saluted him and downed the grain liquor in one sip.

Mr. Feltsman nodded and poured another one. “Told the same to Sara. Leave now, I say to her, before too bad. But she listens?” He snorted. “No. Silly girl not wants to leave. Silly girl, you hear me, silly girl. In love. Bah! Hate that when singers in love!”

“Well, sorry,” Yuuri grumbled, now taking the glass, “Sorry that we're human and not made of stone.” With that he downed his glass.

Mr. Feltsman blinked at him, eyes wide, mouth slack.

Oh dear. Oh dear, that apparently had been a bad move. Yuuri wanted to scramble together an apology, but then again – that would mean that he agreed with him and furthermore, that he thought his and Viktor's relationship was bad for him, which couldn't have been further from the truth.

Viktor's hand ran over his back and he leaned into it.

Finally Mr. Feltsman collected himself again and barked out a laugh. “Ha! You talk back! Can do! Great!”

Great, what an interesting description.

“Did think not you had it,” Mr. Feltsman continued.

Yuuri managed a weak smile. “You don't look like an grouchy old bear right now, so maybe I feel safe? Or maybe it's the alcohol, that has always funny effects on me.”

“And are sarcastic.” Mr. Feltsman sighed. “Of course. Vitya know how to pick them.”

“I know.” Viktor smiled dryly. “Maybe I should have fallen for someone who does not keep me from dropping a chandelier on – his – head.”

“Too much blood,” Mr. Feltsman sighed. “Waste of good chandelier, too.”

They sat like this for a little longer, wrapped in heavy silence; Yuuri felt himself drifting off bit by bit, slowly, slowly, and the silence was weighing him down. It wasn’t even the usual, peaceful silence he and Viktor shared so often. There was companionship in the way they all sat around the table in miserable silence.

And finally Mr. Feltsman downed one last glass of alcohol and then got up. “Alright. Good evening then. Bye.” Without further ado he got up and left Yuuri and Viktor alone.

And the silence commenced.

“Poor Papy,” Viktor sighed. “Not an easy time for him.”

Yuuri shook his head. “ Not at all. I'm amazed he's dealing with it so well.”

“Many years of being used to it, I suppose,” Viktor said and he looked up to Yuuri. His grip around Yuuri's waist loosened up a little. “I think we might better skip our lesson for today.”

Yuuri felt a pang of disappointment. He had looked forward to his lesson today. “What?”

“You look terrible, dear. I think sleep would benefit you far more than a few hours of hard work which you will not be able to do to your own satisfaction and thus only anger and frustrate you.”

Urgh. “Why are you analysing me?”

“Apologies, dear. It is just an observation. Do you think you can work?”

Yuuri pondered the question for a moment and then, with a sigh, shook his head. “Not really, no, but...”

“If not, then go to sleep.” Viktor kissed him on the cheek sweetly.

A last bit of resistance flared up in him. “But it's still so early.”

“You sleep when you need to sleep,” Viktor said. “So sleep. And sleep tonight again.”

“Must be boring for you,” Yuuri mumbled, but he did get up now.

“It is alright,” Viktor said, “I enjoy your company no matter how tired you are. Your presence alone lights up these rooms and considering the amount of work I have still left to do, I can use as much light as I can get.”

“If you say so.” Suddenly there was a chair in his way Yuuri could have sworn had not been there before and he stumbled trying to avoid it.

Viktor caught him. “It was a really bad day, huh?” he asked gently, leading Yuuri to the bed. “I do not think I have ever seen you exhausted like this.”

“I think you can exhaust me to come close to this,” Yuuri mumbled.

Viktor clucked his tongue. “I do beg to differ. While I do strive to exhaust you on regular basis and am very proud whenever I manage to – a trait I undoubtedly share with – that person –, I do hope you actually like the sort of exhaustion I cause you.”

“A lot.” Yuuri yawned. “Am always coming back for more in case you haven't noticed.”

Viktor laughed softly. “I know. But can we agree that I am a bit different than him?”

“Very different,” Yuuri said.

Viktor gave him a slight push and he stumbled and fell onto the bed. “Sleep, yes?” he said and obediently Yuuri crawled under the blankets.

To be completely honest, he was not sleepy, not really, but the exhaustion had settled in his bones, weighing him down, making it a little hard to move now that he was covered by several layers of wool and linen.

“What you gonna do?” he asked.

“I have something to work on still.” He smiled, running a hand through Yuuri's hair.

“What you working on?” It wasn't even sleep that was overwhelming him, just annoyance and frustration with his life, with his singing, with Mr. Wagner. But annoyance and frustration were exhausting as well and added to his weariness.

Viktor ran a hand through his hair and then bent over to kiss him on the temple. “You will see, dear.”

He then left him and Yuuri nodded off to the sound of him stepping away and then sitting down, the scratch of a metal quill over paper. The soft, clear singing when Viktor clanked it against the inkwell to shake off surplus drops of ink.

And then a while later the soft, sweet strings of Viktor's violin that carried him through his slumber. How nice to be like that. How nice.

“Nice,” at some point he heard Plisetsky say, “I like that.”

“Let me hear it, please, Viktor said, “I would like to hear it.”

“It's in tenor, though?”

“It is. Only the first half of this part is in baritone. After the death scene he's a tenor, befitting his otherworldly nature now.”

Yuuri heard Plisetsky chuckling. “You actually kill him off, I am amazed.”

“He comes back as a ghost.”

“You still kill him.”

“I kill you.”

“Only at the end. Where you double-kill him.”

Viktor chuckled now. It rippled through the air and reached Yuuri's ears, running through him like warm water. “Are you warm?”

“Play on.”

Ans again Viktor's violin wept.

“Eilend fliegt hin Zeit die uns gegeben,” Plisetsky sang, his voice high and glass clear and cool as water, “Eben noch tat ich einen Atemzug. Eben noch gab's so viel zu füllen ein einzig Leben. Alles nun vertan, verschwendet und vergeudet, doch dauern kann es mich noch nicht einmal.” Yuuri wanted to weep at this and Yuuri wanted to get up and go to Plisetsky. It wasn't for him. His voice was too clear for this, too etheric; he could tell as much even half-asleep, even after only a few lines.

“Yes, nice,” Plisetsky repeated. “I like it, it suits him.”

Again there was the violin, gentler this time, sweeter, happier, and the music wove itself into the air, into Yuuri's hair and lingered on his skin and Yuuri wanted to sing along to it, once he was awake...

The music died and now there was mumbling, the soft, foreign sound of Russian weaving a cocoon around the room.

Yuuri heard a  _Yurenka_ , which was odd; Viktor never addressed Plisetsky with such a pet name, the boy was always  _Yura_ or  _Yuroshka,_ always, never  _Yurenka_ .

But then there was more singing, more sweet, sweet music to envelop Yuuri and to carry him off and off and off.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During NaNo I typed two chapters of "Sing for me". The second I could cut up into three when it grew too long and I got too frustrated with the chapter count not going up one jot despite me having done like, 60 pages, so... yay! More chapters! They are mainly set around Christmas and will feature a place very important to me, so... watch out for it. I'll probably post them in spring.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stressed out singers. Jealous lovers. Saintly patrons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I picked the 24th (and as often as possible the 10th) of every month as update day I surely had Christmas in mind. Surely.  
> Yeah. :D
> 
> In any case, since it IS Christmas, some gift to you all will go up later that day.

Chapter 20

 

What was left of July and then August passed in a blur of stress, anxiety and maybe one or two breakdowns on Yuuri’s part and September came with rainfall and cool winds, sweeping the remnants of summer away, leaving a grey sky, puddle-infested streets and yellowing leaves behind, the latter two much to the delight of the Dresden children. Occasionally when he was on one of his ways Yuuri felt – when he was in a of late rather rare light hearted mood – tempted to join these children when they were rustling through neatly forked up stacks of autumn foliage (a nightmare for the poor people who were paid to keep the streets foliage free) and splashing in the puddles (a nightmare for their poor mothers who may or may not  have despaired over mud stains).

All things considered it could be worse. Yuuri had fuelled himself with what Plisetsky lovingly called The Power of Spite through the last few months and he found that he was right. Plisetsky’s hailed and revered Power of Spite was a wonderful motivator for a single moment , but in the long run it was threatening to eat him up. It was just a good thing that Viktor, having suffered under Mr. Wagner before, was a remarkably understanding man when Yuuri once more was not in the mood for anything more than falling asleep in his arms after their lessons and some dinner or when he felt the rare need to burst out some long bottled up grievances with his general situation. Viktor listened. Viktor held him when he once again had something of a breakdown and was crying and ranting and drowning in self-loathing once again , and  he talked him through it.

Yuuri was not shy to admit that without Viktor he would have very likely gone mad during these last few weeks.

He was still very close to do so right now.

_Faust_ had come and gone and the audience had loved it. Yuuri had garnered some more praise with some newspapers outright stating that he was most definitely continuing to deliver on the promise his first performance as Pater Heilmann had given.

So Yuuri continued to get solo roles. No lead, but small roles or support characters of middling proportions, enough for him to keep his dressing room as his dressing room. This was good. Yuuri happened to quite like his dressing room. It was a little refuge of privacy in this house where everything was pretty much out on display for everyone who cared to watch.

An interesting thing about dressing rooms was, however, that they were not fully closed off. In his absence, certain people could obtain access very easily.

In Yuuri's case this meant Viktor, of course.

Tonight’s performance of  _Il Sogno di Scipione_ had gone well enough. Yuuri enjoyed the opera and the chance to sing in Italian again; his mother tongue was a comfort he sorely needed when he was working right now. And it was nice to be able to help his friends and his co-workers with the Italian libretto, be it by translating the text with them when they tried to understand what they were singing or by correcting their pronunciation. (As Sara so eloquently put it, most Germans were utterly incapable of not speaking the language like running a wet leather rug over a cheese grater.)

It had been an alright evening and Yuuri was somewhat content and mostly exhausted when he went to change out of his costume.

The first thing he noticed when he walked through the door of his dressing room was that Viktor was there.

Then there was the fact that in a vase on his vanity there was a rather large bouquet of several yellow and red flowers, interwoven with an occasional splash of white.

Well, first things first. “Hello , love.” Yuuri came over to Viktor to greet him with a kiss. “How did you like it tonight?”

“Wonderful.” Viktor quickly drew him into a hug. “Marvellous I would say, but you had a moment in the second act-”

“Urgh, that.” Yuuri sighed. “Yeah. Had stubbed my toe before getting out on stage and...”

“I do not think anyone in the audience has noticed, though. But maybe do not stub your toe anymore. I quite like your feet, it would be a shame if you hurt them.”

Yuri laughed. “I will pay more attention to any crates standing around.” They kissed again. “Thanks for the flowers.”

But Viktor shook his head. “Oh, the y  are not from me.”

Oh. Yuuri cocked his head and peered at the bouquet over Viktor's shoulder.

“After all, it is not like I can just go out and to a flower shop to order a bouquet, now can I?”

There was a hint of bitterness in Viktor's voice, but for now Yuuri elected to ignore it.

He made his way around Viktor to inspect the flowers more closely. “So, if they are not from you, do you have an idea who could have sent them?”

Viktor shook his head. “I got in just before you and they were here already and…” He laughed nervously. “I may or may not have had a minor moment of panic imagining what would have happened if the deliverer had discovered me here.”

“Would have been most unfortunate,” Yuuri agreed.

There was a card put in between two large, sunset-red rudbeckias and Yuuri plucked it.

The writing was stiff and the letters stood individually, like the writer was not entirely familiar with the alphabet, but each of them was done with precision and the German was impeccable.

_Dear Yuuri_

_I am back and I would love to catch up with you over dinner next Thursday if it is alright with you. My address is the same as before so please send me a note whether it is alright with you._

_You were lovely tonight._

_Phichit_

Yuuri felt a smile settling in on his face.

“So, who sent it?” Viktor asked now and Yuuri, instead of answering, handed the card over to him.

Viktor read it and then only said, “Huh.”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “What's the matter?”

“Well. He wants to see you.”

“Which was to be expected, you said so yourself,” Yuuri pointed out.

“Yes, I did.” Viktor sighed and then asked, “Do you want to go?”

“I'd like to, yes. I haven't seen him in quite a while and I would like to see how he is doing and it might be wise to spend some time with my sponsor when he asks me to.”

“Yes.” Viktor pressed his lips together to a fine line. “I suppose.”

Now that was really weird. Yuuri put the card aside and then went on to change out of his costume. “It isn't a problem for you, isn't it,” he said, “Phichit suggested Thursday.”

“Yes. Well... I had hoped you would spend the evening with me.”

Yuuri felt his eyebrow rise even more. “I don't usually come down on a Thursday. Phichit knows on which days I am occupied, that's why he suggested Thursday.”

“Yes, but...” Viktor sighed. “Can you maybe...”

Finally he was out of his costume and could throw on his shirt. “You don't want me to go, I take it?” He peered around his screen.

Viktor stood next to his vanity, playing with a strand of his long hair, wrapping it around his finger, releasing it and wrapping it up again. “That is not it.”

“Then what is it?” He stepped into his trousers as he said that.

“Nothing. It really is nothing, I just think we have had too little time with each other as of late.” Viktor's voice gained an edge as he said that. “That is all.”

Yuuri found it hard to believe him, despite it being a valid reason. “Well...” He was engaged for dinner with his friends. “I can stay in tonight, what do you say?”

Viktor blinked at him. “Well... no, no need to, go...”

“I come back afterwards then,” Yuuri said, although he found it rather telling that Viktor didn't want him to miss out on an evening with his friends, but wasn't keen on him catching up with Phichit.

He came out, throwing on his jacket.

Outside a group of people passed by, chatting and laughing.

Viktor flinched and turned as if to find a hiding place before he realized what he was doing.

He paused in his movement and then sighed.

Yuuri came to him and took his hand between his own. “I can stay, really.”

But Viktor shook his head, brow furrowed. “No, you go and have dinner with your friends. And then you go home and have a good nights sleep. I will see you tomorrow.” He drew in a deep breath. “And think about what to wear on Thursday, I am pretty sure you will be treated to a very fine dinner in a very fine establishment.”

So that was settled then? Really?

Yuuri looked up to him. Viktor's eye was slightly narrowed, his brow furrowed. He still didn't like the idea of Yuuri going out with his sponsor. But he had given in, so it was alright, wasn't it?  
  


Yuuri wasn't sure about it on Thursday when he – in his good evening suit – was sitting down with Phichit over dinner which was held, as predicted by Viktor, in a fine location near the Caroline plaza on the other side of the Albert bridge, overlooking the promenade on the riverbanks. Phichit had picked a table near a window from which they had a wonderful view on the Royal Court Chapel, the theatre and the Royal city castle, windows alight  so  that they glittered and gleamed like the stars in the clear evening sky. The river glittered and sparkled with them, reflecting both stars and bright windows. It was too nice a view for Yuuri to feel like spoiling it with the less enjoyable tales of the Royal Court Theatre under the recently re-established rule of Richard Wagner and so he had decided to keep that bit to himself for now.

There would be other days in the near future for him to complain and bring Phichit up to date with his recent woes.

Yes, it could have been a wonderful evening, but Yuuri found it hard to focus on his dish of baked trout and rice when he still had Viktor's rather unhappy face in mind as he had bid Yuuri a nice evening, a silent “Without me” hanging in the air between them.

Yuuri had left feeling bad for doing so and he was still feeling bad for actually having started to enjoy both the food and Phichit's company; then he had realized that he was enjoying himself and had felt bad again, which was currently spoiling his enjoyment quite considerably.

“... and apparently the queen and one of her daughters are having quite a row with each other,” Phichit right now was saying. “I saw the Royal princess Victoria visiting the St. Georges Gallery and overheard her discussing a few sculptures on display with her companions and her governess. Clever girl, she made interesting observations.”

“I wasn't aware princesses attend public museums,” Yuuri said. He didn't even know which princess Phichit was talking about; Queen Viktoria seemed to consider procreation a rather recreational past time. As Celestino had once commented, it was impossible to turn your head without the German Royal couple filling the royal palaces of Great Britian with more and more of their brood.

“Well, the English Royal Family tried for a popular touch right away, you cannot go into any shop without seeing collectible pictures you can buy. And with every new prince or princess the flood of pictures increases, which is kind of baffling, if you ask me; there are so many of them already one would think the people have had enough by now.”

“Well, people tend to consider babies adorable and the image of a happy young mother tends to be inspiring, so I am not surprised they keep polishing up their image with more and more children,” Yuuri remarked, taking a bite of his baked trout. “So, what is the row between the queen and her daughter about?”

“Well, the princess complained rather vocally about the strict regimen her mother put on her and about the rare hours she ever sees her mother – and then she added, “But this is just as well, considering our dear father cares better for us anyways“. Her governess quickly tried to shush her, of course, suggesting she might make some sketches to show her parents, surely the Queen would like that?”

Yuuri managed a smile and Phichit, putting his glass of wine down. “I had hoped you would enjoy the evening more,” he said, “but you don’t. Is everything alright? Are you…” He faltered and then sighed, “I’m sorry. I have made things awkward, haven’t I?”  
Yuuri blinked at him, then he shook his head. “No, no, that's not it.” Well, he had been worried things might be awkward now, admittedly, but so far the evening had been very pleasant indeed or could have been if it hadn't been for his guilty conscience over Viktor. “It is – I mean, unless it is awkward for you, then...”

Phichit played with his fork. “It is less awkward than I feared,” he said. “Mainly I am happy to be here with you again. But something's the matter for you.”

Maybe Phichit wasn't the right person to confide in, but still. Somehow he was, if just by he virtue of being here, of not being involved with both him and Viktor and by somewhat understanding Yuuri's situation without demanding him to introduce him to his lover (like Mila and Sara might have done).

“My lover knows of you,” he said and Phichit nodded.

“Obviously. I apparently have been the cause for trouble in the past?”

Yuuri shook his head. “No really. From what he heard about you he liked you and deemed you a decent man.”

“Oh my.” Phichit shook his head, clearly amused. “I am deeply flattered by this assessment.”

Yuuri smiled. “I will deliver you being flattered to him. Who knows what it might do.” He sighed. “In any case, for some reason it has become a problem now. I mean, before he had never taken any issue with me going out with you, but...”

“Oh dear, I should not have sent flowers,” Phichit sighed. “One would be bound to take that the wrong way.”

“Or not.” Yuuri furrowed his brow. “He was amused by the flowers, it was your note that troubled him. All of a sudden he wanted to spend the evening today with me, but he wasn't opposed to me going out with some other singers for dinner that same night yesterday.”

Phichit made a face. “I may or may not have caused some jealousy in him and I am deeply sorry for the trouble that now arose for you.”

“But...” Yuuri shook his head and stabbed a potato with his fork with maybe a bit more vigour than was due. The poor vegetable split clean in half. He took a sip of wine. “But it never had been a problem before, so why would it be now?”

“Just because it was not a problem before doesn't mean that it will never be one.” He finished his glass of wine the same moment as Yuuri did. “Maybe something in his circumstances changed that he now sees things differently.” A waiter came, bearing a carafe of cut crystal, filled with the same pale golden liquid they had had all evening and refilled their glasses.

Phichit took a bite of his fish and then another sip of his wine. “I thought of taking you on a stroll after dinner. I actually thought about having something for dessert here, they have a wonderful almond pudding. But maybe we should eat up, call it a night and you go home to him. I would hate to cause even more problems to you.”

Phichit, Yuuri decided, was undoubtedly a human being, but one who made a rather valid bid for being declared a saint in his lifetime – Phichit, patron saint of gracefully rejected men. Had a nice ring to it.

It still made him feel bad to eat and drink up, pay for the wine (he insisted. After all he had cut the evening short), have Phichit pay for the food (Phichit insisted; Yuuri was his guest after all) and then leave the place with him.

“I still would like to make it up to you for that,” he said as they strolled back over the Albert bridge to the other side of the river.

Phichit shook his head. “No need to, really. I understand.”

“But...”

“I really do. I would have liked for the evening to have gone a little longer – you still haven't brought me up to date about what has happened – why is Mr. Wagner back anyways?”

Yuuri laughed weakly. “Well... that's something we all would like to know, really. How are your plans for Saturday?”

“I have a meeting in the morning, but afterwards I am free.”

“How about we meet for lunch and I can tell you about it?”

As Yuuri had hoped, Phichit's face lightened up as he said this. “Gladly! After your rehearsals I take it?”

Oh thank goodness. Yuuri's guilty conscience calmed down just a little. “Currently we're usually done around half past eleven, so if you want to pick me up around that time?”

“Gladly. I would love to listen to the rehearsal as well, but well, business.”

“You haven't told me anything about how the trip went in that regard,” Yuuri noted. Truth be told, he hadn't realized until now.

“It is pretty boring to someone who is not directly involved or interested in international spice trade, so I didn't want to make you regret having dinner with me.” Phichit laughed. “I will gladly tell you about it if you tell me about Mr. Wagner.”

Yuuri nodded. “Yes, sounds good.”

“See you then.”

They clasped hands and then parted ways, Phichit back to his hotel, Yuuri to the theatre, slinking around the building until he found the side entrance that was the closest to the basement.

He had sneaked out through this so often during the last few months that he found his way just as easily through the darkness here as down in Viktor's cave when all the candles were out.

Still, he carefully moved his foot over the floor before stepping through the room, to the door and then into the even fuller, more all-encompassing darkness.

His steps echoed so loud ly that surely Viktor would hear him if he was still awake and maybe meet him at the entrance, curious what would have brought him here now.

When he came into the cave a few candles were burning, directing Yuuri's attention towards the back of the living area, to Viktor's work desk.

He was sitting there, writing, but only ever for a few moments before crumbling up the paper and letting it fall off his desk.

Yuuri could see that his brow was furrowed and his nose crinkled. Occasionally he put his pen aside and rubbed his eyes and then took it up to work again, running a hand through his hair.

Coming closer Yuuri could take a look on the dinner table. There was some bread and cheese put out and a bowl of long gone cold soup. Evidently someone – probably Plisetsky – had brought him dinner but then had left him to his own devices.

He didn't look up when Yuuri came closer and accordingly Yuuri softened his step even further.

Now he heard Viktor mutter under his breath in Russian.

The next paper got crumpled up. Yuuri could see that he was using paper that had been written on and blotched with ink before, bits of music, a few lines, then it had been crumpled up, put away and then later straightened to be used again.

Viktor wrote with long, loopy, inattentive lines and very often a drop of ink splotched over the paper.

Yuuri didn't bother to read what he was trying to work on. “You know,” he said instead, “maybe it would be easier to focus on your work if you actually didn't do it with an empty stomach.”

The effect was rather immediate; Viktor flinched and turned around to him, his eye wide. “Yuuri, hello. I did not... I did not expect you, you are...” He cleared his throat. “I thought you were out with your sponsor.”

Yuuri nodded. “I was. But now I'm not, as you can see.”

“And...” Again Viktor cleared his throat. “And what are you doing here?”

“Delivering the message that Phichit has no intention regarding my person.”

“Message,” Viktor repeated.

Yuuri nodded. “From Phichit, yes.”

Viktor laughed softly. “Well, if he says so…”

Again Yuuri nodded. “He does and for my part I do believe him.” He took a breath. “The question is, do you trust me?”

Viktor got up so abruptly that his chair fell over. “Of course I do!”

Yuuri looked up to him with a careful smile. “It doesn’t really feel that way right now.”

Viktor swallowed. “I am sorry.”

He was. Yuuri could hear it. “I know.” Once again he sighed. “I know you are worried and that you don’t like it when sponsors have interest in their protégés.” Even though it had never been an issue before, but it was best not to comment on that, Yuuri decided. “And I understand.”

Viktor smiled or at least his mouth did. “Really?”

Yuuri withstood the urge to sigh in frustration. “Yes, I do.” God, this was vexing; he and Viktor shouldn't have need for this kind of discussions, really. And yet here they were. “If I thought there was anything going on I would have cut the evening short much earlier than I did anyway.”

“Why did you, by the way?” Viktor asked and Yuuri was tempted to answer truthfully with _Because I felt bad about leaving you alone and because I don't want you to think I am going behind your back_ , but that again was a point to bring up in another discussion, when it was not used to distract from the one at hand.

“The way things are right now, think I would like to be friends with him anyways, sponsorship or not,” he finally said and looked up to meet Viktor's eyes.

Viktor did not look happy. His face was tense and stony and Yuuri could see a shadow hush over his face as he moved his jaw. The shadow hushed over his throat as he swallowed. Then, finally, he sighed. “You really do like him, huh?”

“I do,” Yuuri said. “What's there not to like? Phichit is a good man, kind, generous, intelligent and a very entertaining storyteller. Who wouldn't like him?”

Viktor bit his lips and then sighed as if defeated and it needled Yuuri in a way he didn't know how to explain. It shouldn't needle him, really. He was right and Viktor was in no position to act like he had made a concession to him  with a heavy heart . “I am sorry.”

He should be. And Yuuri accepted the apology and did it with a smile, a press on Viktor's hand and a kiss on Viktor's cheek.

But it still rubbed him. And Viktor hadn't specified what he was sorry for.

But later. They could discuss this a bit later, when they both were calmer.

Viktor sighed once more and then smiled at him. “I have been working on something lately.”

Alright. Change of topic. For now, Yuuri was very fine with that. He smiled. “Can I hear it?”

Viktor smiled brightly and turned around to grab his violin. This smile in itself was enough to blow away any grumbly mood Yuuri might still have held and he refused to fight down the tingle of excitement that arose at the prospect of Viktor presenting him with a new piece of music, one he had worked out and created himself.

Viktor put the violin on his shoulder and to his chin, raised the bow, put it to the strings and then began to play.

It was not entirely new to Yuuri. It was Viktor's creation, there was no doubt about that, but Yuuri had heard it before, half-asleep and with words sung to them.

Without the lyrics it almost sounded even sweeter, emotion too raw, too fresh, too direct to be put into words. And still Yuuri wanted to sing with it, if he only could recall the words...

“I like it,” he said when Viktor ended. “It's lovely. Does it have a text, it sound like it should have a text.”

It had a text, Yuuri knew. He had heard it before, but he couldn’t remember the words. He only knew that it had been longing, wistful, mourning.

“It has.” Viktor handed him a paper covered in his scrawly, loopy handwriting Yuuri had trouble to decipher.

Often he had struck through the lines he had written and scrawled something above them.  
Yuuri still could make out a few words and he remember-recognized a few of the lines. “The narrator is dying,” he said.

Viktor nodded. “Already dead. Already a ghost. Already bemoaning his lost life. Already seeing a tragedy unfold.”

“He has realized his own mortality, but too late?” Yuuri asked.

But now Viktor shook his head. “He knew about how quickly a human life could end, but he had hoped to live long enough to see a few more wonders of the world. But then he dies, protecting someone he holds dearer than anything else and he realizes that his death will spell a great tragedy.”

Yuuri focussed on the words on the paper.  _Nicht ohne Tun möcht meine Zeit verstreichen, nicht vergehen ohne Wirken_ _._

“He wants to be useful even in death. He wants his life to have meaning...” He continued reading. “And he wants to serve.”

“Can you sing it?” Viktor asked.

“I think so.” Yuuri read the lines again.

“Warm yourself up then, will you?”

Yuuri nodded and proceeded to breathe, in, out, then sing scales up and down, had his breath carry notes.

“Play it to me once more, will you?” he then asked.

Viktor lifted his violin to his chin and again played.

The melody wept and mourned and Yuuri found the words again. “Eilend fliegt hin Zeit die uns gegeben,” he sang, the same words he had hear Plisetsky sing and he had to force the words through his throat, “Eben noch tat ich einen Atemzug. Eben noch gab's so viel zu fü- sorry...” He swallowed and fought back the hot wetness behind his eyes.

“Is it that bad?” Viktor asked, reaching out for him. “It is not my first composition, but this is the first time I put words to a melody or try to tell a long story with them. I am probably not good at this yet.”

“No, no, it is...” Now Yuuri really had to wipe his eyes. But at least no more tears were coming, that was good. “I really like it. Let's start again, maybe?”

“Are you sure it is is not my writing?”

Yuuri chuckled. “Very sure. If you want a really honest opinion and criticism though, maybe better ask Mr. Feltsman.”

Viktor laughed. “I want to finish this work one day soon, not throw it into the fire in a fit of frustration. Yakov would find fault with every other line. No, no, he will be asked for his valued opinion when I am positive he will take issue with only every third or so.”

Yuuri chuckled. “Keep working then. Can we start again?”

Viktor complied and this time Yuuri sang through it and could keep his throat from acting as if he had just lost a loved one, so they could actually pay attention to the music.

It was ethereal. Befitting for a ghost, but as Yuuri had suspected, strangely unsuited for Plisetsky’s glass clear voice that could pull the entire song very much into the eerie area.

It worked well with his tenor, a little on the deeper end, but nonetheless clear and piercing when he focussed himself.

“I might sound self-satisfied,” Viktor said, “and it is strange that I would notice only now, but your voice has changed a lot.”

It had, Yuuri had to agree. Mostly he had developed a stronger volume, a firmness and a mass behind his voice that had not been his before. Maybe it had something to do with the way Viktor , even in these days , would pull Yuuri's shoulders back and straighten his posture.

It was something Yuuri prayed he would never stop doing.

Probably this new gravitas in his voice – not that it was that new – had something to do with that. Celestino had firmly and irrevocably considered him a tenor and Yuuri's vocal education had been thus. It had been a good while later that Celestino had relented and admitted that maybe he could dabble in the lower ranges of his voice  as well .

He had never sounded so much like the person he wanted to be in Italy. (Admittedly, recently he didn't sound like that person here either. It was tempting to lay the blame at Mr. Wagner's feet and Yuuri at least partially did. )

Right now , however , he had sung as good as ever , oh , and how good it felt to finally hear his own voice properly again.

Under Viktor's tutelage the focus had been more on his baritone; with the exception of  _Rienzi_ , which had brought them back to his tenor.

All in all his voice had profited from the focus on the baritone. He sounded graver now, stronger and earthy even when hitting the high notes.

And yet he never had sounded airier, lighter, ethereal.

It was the music, he realized. Yuuri's voice had developed a great deal, yes. He had been a good, competent singer when he had arrived in Dresden, albeit too easily scared to be of any use in any solo role ever. But the music, Viktor's music, oh, how it raised him, raised his voice towards ever new levels, to ever new heights.

But still. This clear, air-light quality of his singing came not only from his voice. A lot of it came from the music.

And it was wonderful. It was wonderful that this music had such a quality independent from the singer and that it could add some of its flair to the voice singing it.

He listened after the last note he had sung, turning around to Viktor. “This is wonderful.”  
Viktor's face brightened up in an instant. “You do like it?”

“I love it!” Yuuri exclaimed. “What does it belong to, you said this is your first time telling a longer story with music.”

Viktor nodded. “I am glad you like it. That means both my leads are cast already.”

“What?” Yuuri blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I have been working on this for years now. Originally I had only one sympathetic lead role. For Yura. But then I hit a wall, so to speak.” Viktor scratched the back of his neck and smiled rather sheepishly. “I had no idea how to progress the story and the development of the lead role, but it would not work out until you. The more I knew you and the more I heard you sing and witnessed your voice develop the more I wanted to compose and write something for you and then your ability to from baritone to tenor and back without much trouble and how well you and Yura match each other...” He sat down. “It is fun to work with it. Constant source of inspiration.”

Yuuri chuckled. “Why, thank you. What is the opera about?”

“No romance,” Viktor said, “not explicitly, anyways. It was intended this way from the start, but when I hit the wall I briefly thought about adding a romance to it anyways. When in doubt, add romance and the according drama.”

“Who came up with that rule anyways?” Yuuri mused.

“I do not know, dear, but for most people it seems to work, so let us not argue with it. In any case, Yura's role is written somewhat ambiguously. A russalka, a water spirit. They are usually female.” Viktor chuckled. “When I first presented him with it, he laughed about it and commented that it was a smarter idea than I usually have. You both were to be genderless at first, two spirits rebelling against and then fleeing from the fairy king. Then I decided to make use of your voice range and the second spirit became a human man. Yura's role is still ambiguous. The voice range is high enough to be sung by an alto or maybe even a mezzo soprano if one wants to play up a romantic angle without offending any sensibilities.”

“You still haven't told me the story,” Yuuri reminded him.

“Oh dear.” Viktor sighed. “I got carried away. The story is of a man and a russalka who meet and become friends, close friends, sworn to love and protect each other at all cost. You might even say they are lovers, depending on the cast and their interpretation.”

Viktor wanted him and Plisetsky to portray an intense friendship, even love affair maybe? Yuuri couldn't help but chuckle at the notion.

“The fairy king does not approve of it and he is only the worst of obstacles. He kills the man and thus ignites the Russalka into rebellion against both its water sprite siblings and the king himself.”

“How does it end?” Yuuri asked.

“In tragedy,” Viktor replied. “The fairy king dies, but only after a long time. The Russalka meanwhile is consumed by grief and a desire for blood and revenge. In the end he dies at the hand of the fairy king as he kills him. His rebellion against the fairy king was too rash, too impulsive, too much -”

“It sounds less like a rebellion and more like a vendetta, if you ask me.”  
“It is. Most rebellions come from a personal feeling of deep injustice,” Viktor said. “That does not mean they are not right. Just that it might contribute to why they fail. Or why they get so violent. Too much emotion. Too little time to think things through.”

Something was not right with that explanation, but Yuuri could not point the finger on what it might be.

“But he still causes change. See, there was a law, forbidding the spirits to have contact with humans. The russalka had gone against this when he befriended the human. The fairy king was right to punish him from that perspective. But he is also wrong, because while he claims that humans will drive them away from their land, he also wants to expand his reach. So he himself wages a war to drive them off. But they live on entirely different planes, they only have contact when the spirits decide to meet them.” He sighed. “In the end, with the elven king dead and both the russalka and the human man as well, the remaining spirits decide that it might be possible to live together, but not with the way how they all are, humans and spirits. They need to change before they can try again. The humans promise to. The spirits promise to. Until this promise is fulfilled they will live separate from each other, each for their own.”

“Tragic,” Yuuri sighed. “But then again, what else to expect from an opera with supernatural beings?”

“You like it though?” Viktor asked, wringing his hands, smiling nervously.

“It's wonderful,” Yuuri said, relishing in how Viktor's face relaxed, “I love it. I'd be honoured to sing it.”

Viktor's face brightened up even more and what a sight it was. All Yuuri could do was smile, delighting in the sight. Nothing else, nobody else could give him this pleasure with just a smile, this delight, this hopeful prospects of a future together, nothing, nobody, no role he would ever sing, no amount of money, no sponsor, regardless how kind and delightful they may were, not even any of his friends could make his stomach be so warm and soft and pliable with delight.

Viktor handed another sheet of paper to Yuuri while he grabbed his violin and then started to play another melody, lighter, sweeter and with much variation. It was a duet, Yuuri realized when reading the paper Viktor had given to him. And it was written for a baritone and a tenor.

He let Viktor finish.

“It sounds a lot like the other piece. Change the harmony and key and speed a little and it should work out just fine.”

“I think it is called a leitmotif. An invention of that man upstairs.”

“Richard Wagner,” Yuuri said, “just in case you are about to forget his name.”

“Yes, yes. I hate to admit it, but this is a good thing. Assigning a certain basic melody to a role or a certain story element and assigning certain instruments to a mood makes it a lot easier to follow the story, even when it becomes more complex – even when you do not understand the language in which the opera is sung.” He smiled. “It was always my belief that music is great at building bridges. Far better than at being some holy, national treasure that has to be kept as pure as possible. How ironic that he – Wagner – enables narrative music to be international.” He made a face when he said the name. Then he sighed and his sigh turned into the start of a breathing exercise.

Yuuri listened to him carrying a tone, admiring how smooth his voice could waft through the air, how it seeped under his skin, into his bones, warming him trough and through.

“I'll do the tenor part, right?” he asked.

Viktor nodded. “You do remember the melody, yes?”

In reply Yuuri hummed it and then glancing at the sheet for the lyrics, sang.

“Zeit, die verfliegt und vergeht und verhaucht und schwindet, eh ich sie greif und begreif und schon vorbei immerzu, immer weiter-” How quick the words came, a constant murmur, up and down the melody went, like the water the spirit belonged to who was singing here.

And then a shift, maybe the inner thoughts of the russalka had come to a halt as he addressed the human man. “Und hier stehst du! Klar und greifbar unbegreifbar.”

Viktor evidently liked to play with the German language. He smiled proudly as Yuuri sang these words before he picked up the ongoing melody. “Wie flüchtig, traumrichtig scheinst du zu mir.”

Yuuri had to suppress a shiver at Viktor's words and at his fingers that brushed against his hand.

“Und sagst doch wie fremd ich dir bin,” Sharp, punctuated staccato, each syllable a little knife, “wo du doch tausende siehst.”

“Doch nie sieht man euch lang,” Yuuri answered, now adopting the staccato himself, “seid rasch vergangen, reift und und schwindet bakd. Kaum lohnt es sich zu kennen euren Sinn.” He looked up to Viktor as the melody rose. “Und doch stehst du vor mir.”

“Euch Geister flüchtig Wesen zu versteh'n hat nie ein Mensch vermocht,” Viktor counterd. Human and Russalka were drawn to each other, inexplicably so, but they openly admitted how strange they were to each other and how little they knew and understood.

“Seid ihr nicht aus der Ewigkeit, undendlich und flüchtig, traumrichtig scheinst du zu sein. Und doch sagst dass uns nicht verstehst, wenn du uns ins Wasser ziehst.”

Russalkas killed their victims by luring them to the water and then drowning them.

“Seid zu kurz hier und dann fort und vergeht und geht und verfliegt,” Yuuri answered, “und seid fremd, doch du verstehst? Verstehst und liebst wie wir nun sind und fürchtest nichts-”

“Nur dass du gehst,” Viktor finished.

He cleared his throat. “I am still working on the follow up to this line, but the duet will not got much longer. They pledge friendship to each other and then the scene ends when the man has to leave for now.”

Yuuri let the words ring through his head once more. “It is lovely.”

“Worth cutting short your evening?” Viktor asked.

“Hm,” Yuuri hummed, cocking his head, “almost.”

Viktor leaned over to kiss him.

Yuuri could taste very strong black tea on his breath.

“Now?”

“Alright, now.” He lifted a hand and ran it through Viktor's hair. “But just so we're clear, this is the first and last time.”

Viktor pressed his full, arched lips into a thin line, but he nodded. “I understand. I am sorry.”

Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't , it didn't matter. Yuuri had made himself clear. That mattered.

“And -” And now he already felt his resolve waver. “And I meet him for lunch on Saturday. To make up for tonight.”

He was half-expecting protest. Or Viktor to make a face. Or Viktor to give some barbed remark about how much Yuuri seemed to enjoy Phichit's company.

If Viktor was intent on saying something to that effect Yuuri was prepared to answer him in kind. If something to that effect came he had to stand the ground he just now had established.

But Viktor didn't say anything. He kept his face very, very neutral, very calm and he nodded very, very slowly. “That seems right.”

Yuuri had hardly any words to express his relief at that. He pulled Viktor closer to him. Maybe to make up for anything that had come before. Maybe to let him know that no matter what, Yuuri loved him and would always love to spend time with him. Maybe simply because he liked to kiss Viktor and wanted to do so right now.

The kiss turned out longer than Yuuri had anticipated and he was most definitely not unhappy about it, leaning in closer to it.

And when Viktor asked , “Please stay?” , Yuuri of course gladly agreed.  


“So?” Plisetsky asked while they waited in the wings for Mr. Wagner to finish dealing with Johannes Erhardt, “how was your evening?”

“Nice,” Yuuri answered, watching as Johannes Erhardt listened to the criticism heaved upon him, face growing ever more akin to a ripe strawberry. “It's good that Phichit's back. I did miss him. It was fun to catch up with him.”

Plisetsky smiled dryly.

Yuuri sighed and rubbed his temple. “Viktor asked you to ask, right?”

Plisetsky's smile turned slightly sour. “He did.”

“And here I thought we've been through that.”

“I think it's stupid too,” Plisetsky admitted, “But...”

“You still did as he told you and asked to see if...” If what? If he had gone behind Viktor's back? That he was looking for a new lover?

That was stupid. Viktor would never suspect him of something like that. At least not consciously. Who could say what was going in the back of his head, maybe without him even noticing.

“It's stupid, I know, but he wouldn't be quiet until I promised to ask and he can be so annoying when he decides he wants to know something and...”

Yuuri sighed. “I know. If he wants to know what I told you – we had a nice walk along the riverbanks, the food was good, the wine delicious and both too expensive for me to afford on my own at this point. I missed desert. And Phichit's business has gone well, it seems. He said he got some new contracts in London, some even reaching overseas to the Americas.” He sighed, recalling a few bits of their conversation. “Spice trade seems a lot more complicated than I ever thought.”

Plisetsky nodded thoughtfully. “You know, this does sound reassuring. Almost as if you had this comment prepared in case he or anyone else asked you and you wanted to really drive home the point that you are really, really, very much not interested in the guy. Someone extremely jealous now would probably grow suspicious that you secretly actually are.”

Yuuri blinked and then shook his head. “This is stupid,” he sighed.

“Yes, it is,” Plisetsky agreed. “You know, that's one of the reasons I'd like to go without a sponsor. In the end they always want something from you and that sucks.”

That sounded so much like what Viktor was always preaching that Yuuri would have liked to laugh.

“And even if your sponsor and you don't have any interest in each other, rumours will gladly claim otherwise in any case,” Plisetsky continued, “and when the person who believes this is your lover, it can get really annoying. I suppose, I mean, I only have to look at you.”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “I wasn't aware that my life is setting any sort of example to other people.”

“I see you almost everyday, I see how you and Viktor deal with each other. And I can deal without the way Viktor is acting right now, so really, I'd rather not get a sponsorship.”

Yuuri shrugged. “Well, you can do that. Or you can simply remain single and not get into any relationship of that nature. Life might be somewhat less complicated. But then again, it might be a little too late for that, huh?”

Yuuri would never cease to be amazed – or amused – at how quickly Plisetsky's face could change colour, turning beet red in an instant.

Yuuri chuckled. “I think you're up in a bit.”

In fact, on stage Johannes Erhardt was listening to some instructions by Mr. Wagner and once again his face was developing a rather unhealthy colouring, not unlike the shades on Plisetsky's face.

And indeed, a moment later Mr. Wagner called, “Yuri, come! Your part!” and Plisetsky ran on stage.

Yuuri watched and listened, half smiling. He could relax. Mr. Wagner would not call for him to work with today; he rarely ever looked at him more than once a week or so and he had given him five minutes of practise on Tuesday already.

Plisetsky sang through his lines, listened to the criticism Mr. Wagner gave him and then returned.

They stood in an almost companionable silence next to each other and listened to Mila going through two of her arias.

“That's it?” Plisetsky then asked, “no questions?”

“I can hardly pester you when you're up to sing, right?” Yuuri asked.

“Well, I'm back now,” Plisetsky pointed out.

“Barely.”

Plisetsky sighed. “You know, Viktor would have already pestered me with questions. Or needled me with remarks- oh.”

Yuuri chuckled. “He can be rather insistent when he wants to know something, huh?”

“You have no idea.” Plisetsky rolled his eyes and then glanced sideways to Yuuri. “You're not, though?”

He was brimming with...  _something_ , maybe he wanted Yuuri to ask him, so he could talk. He was young and in love. There was no reason for him not wanting to talk and be happy and have someone share in on that happiness. That was something Yuuri could understand. He could understand very well, in fact.

Or maybe he was used to being pestered with questions and was not expecting that none were coming?

“You are not curious?” Plisetsky asked and he sounded like he was somewhere between relief and disappointment.

Yuuri managed to keep his smile somewhat subtle. “Extremely. But I also have an inkling whom you're spending your time with.” Great, very good, a nice, innocuous phrase that still got across what he meant to the person who it concerned and he had even come up with it on the drop of his hat.

“But I don't think this is the right place to talk about the ore intimate aspects of your personal life. Not with people potentially listening in.”

“Several of these people are your friends,” Plisetsky pointed out.

“They are. Two of my friends go by the names of _Sara_ and _Mila_. With them and with you – and even with Mr. Feltsman – I know I am safe. With anyone else I don't. Friends or not, I don't know how far their love for me reaches and I really don't wish to risk a trip to the correction prison.”

“That's bullshit.” Plisetsky shook his head.

Yuuri glanced over to Mr. Feltsman who was silently leaning against a beam and watching the rehearsals with a deeply furrowed brow. Apparently Plisetsky's use of foul language had gone unnoticed, not that Mr. Feltsman had ever been too keen to punish the boy for his mouth, since at least when in public and among patrons of the theatre he knew how to behave.

“Maybe,” Yuuri sighed, “Mainly it's life.”

“But what do you have friends for if you can't trust them?”

“I do trust them, I simply don't know how deeply I can trust them with-” Yuuri sighed, “with some matters. But when it comes to other things I know I can trust them unconditionally and they will stand behind me just as unconditionally in these matters. But with some things-” again he sighed, “as I said, it is difficult. And annoying. And stupid, yes.”

Now Plisetsky as well sighed. “You know, that's what's good about not having too many friends. One thing less to worry about, you know , and it's not like people like us don't have enough to worry about as it is.”

There was more the boy wanted to talk about than his new, budding relationship, Yuuri realized and he leaned against the beam, nodding in an invitation for Plisetsky to continue.

And Plisetsky took him up on this rather gladly.

“I mean, I've been thinking about this shit and...” The boy shook his head, pale hair swishing around his face. “I... it's...” He ran a hand over his face. “It...”

“Hiding?” Yuuri offered.

Plisetsky nodded. “And it's... I mean, you're right. Correction houses suck , I've been told , and nobody wants to go there, but if you are not careful around most people – and... I mean if anyone wants to set my career on fire, all they would need to do is...” Now he shook his head again, eyes glazing over just a little. “I... shit.”

“I think your chamber pot is in your dressing room,” Yuuri said, “At least I hope so.”

“No, that's not... shit.” Again Plisetsky shook his head. “Shit, shit, shit...” He swallowed. “Are you meeting him today?”

“Viktor?”

“No, the Emperor of China, idiot. Of course Viktor.”

“Yes, of course. Lessons and such.”

“And such,” Plisetsky said, “say, can I just... can you take your lessons tomorrow instead of today, I think I need...”

Now  _that_ was a reason to smile. Yuuri nodded. “It's alright. I'll do some shopping in the city.”

Plisetsky nodded and then chewed on his lip. He lowered his gaze. “Or... maybe not tomorrow, I think it's enough if... but I...”

“I'll be down a few hours later.”

“Good, that would be it for today!” Mr. Wagner called and they heard steps approaching.

“Better go now,” Yuuri whispered, “before he has something to say to you.”

Plisetsky nodded. “Thank you.” He shot Yuuri a smile, one of the rare ones, without any barbs or hooks sticking out like fangs from a tiger's maw.

And then he turned around and rushed off.

“Yuri!” Mr. Wagner called, but the boy didn't pay him any heed, rushing off and away, steps hammering a notable staccato as he disappeared.

Sara blinked. “Oh my, that is new.”

Mila shook her head. “Indeed. He left the fire in the stove running or what?”

“I do hope for a better explanation than that,” Mr. Wagner said, eyes almost disappearing under his furrowed brow. “I had asked him for a moment after today's rehearsal. I would have expected him to remember this and stay.” He turned to Yuuri. “What have you said to him?”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “Surely, Mr. Wagner, you don't think I have ordered him to rush away so he may not listen to whatever wisdom you have to bestow on him.” Oh, wonderful, he was in a mood to have his mouth run the day for him. He so wouldn't regret that later.

Mr. Wagner softly snorted. “Of course not. But since you seem to share a rather close relationship to our young prodigy, maybe you can divulge what you think might be the reason for his sudden departure?”

Yuuri pondered his answer. He thought of the sudden understanding that had dawned behind Plisetsky's eyes, the shock at the realization and the urgency with which he had wanted to go to Viktor all of a sudden.

“I suspect a sudden onset of maturity,” he finally answered truthfully.

Thankfully, nobody (maybe except Mr. Feltsman, but well, he would not say anything in the matter, thankfully) had a clue what he was referring to and so each of them drew their own conclusions.

He saw how Sara's eyes began to sparkle. “Aw, this is too cute,” she cooed, elbowing Mila in the ribs, “our Yuccino is in love!”

Yuuri considered adopting  _Yuccino_ as a way to address Plisetsky, at least when he was feeling slightly suicidal.

“Bah,” Mr. Wagner said, “the lad's too young for this nonsense.”

“The younger, the easier to fall in love and fall hard,” Sara answered and Yuuri noticed that she was laying on the accent quite thickly. “Or have you never been young, _maestro_?”

“I was, my dear, that's why I can attest you that women are nothing but an unnecessary distraction to a young man who should focus on his work and on improving his skills.”

“But wasn't it you,” Mila chirped, hooking her arm around Sara's, “who declared love to be the ultimate, pure, perfect goal for any upright young man? At least your current body of work would suggest this. I mean, look at your _Rienzi_ and how much Adriano is inspired by his love for Irene.”

“Adriano was mostly inspired by his desire to serve Rome,” Mr. Wagner argued.

“But he was swayed by his love,” Sara purred. “And you cannot deny that you portrayed this as his big motivator and the great source of conflict for him. Such a deep feeling, so troubling.” She sighed. “Surely you want us to portray this exact feeling as accurately and captivatingly as possible? How would one achieve that without having ever tasted the sweetness of loving and being loved so deeply as the young and the old can?” She cocked her head. “Leave the boy to his personal joys. He will gladly bring them into his performance and portray them properly on stage.” And with that, arm still hooked up with Mila, she turned around, smiling, skirts swishing, and they left, their steps clicking away. 

Mila grinned back at them and waved.

Mr. Wagner snorted. “Silly girl. Won't make it much further than this.” He turned around. “In any case, I hope to see you all tomorrow for rehearsal. Have a nice day and to those of you on stage tonight – break a leg.” And with that he as well left.

Andreas blinked several times and then he sighed. “Tell me, are they not wonderful , both of them?”

Yuuri blinked. “What?”

“Miss Sara. And Mila. Are they not wonderful?”

Mr. Feltsman made a face.

Andreas did not notice, still looking the direction the women had disappeared into. Then he looked at Yuuri, still smiling. “Right?”

It was too early in the day for this, Yuuri concluded, far too early. Still he nodded. “Yes, they are.”

“Such charm, such wit, such cleverness.”

Such an inability to keep themselves somewhat covered, so to speak, but that was exactly what Yuuri was not doing.

Andreas sighed again, eyes gleaming. “What a woman.”

It was too early for Yuuri to need a drink.

But it was also too early for Yuuri to listen to Andreas mooning over one – or even worse, two – women. And he could not flee downstairs to Viktor and away from Andreas' gushing, which would only grow worse and more repetitive.

It was entirely too early in the day, but still; since escaping downstairs and into Viktor's arms was out of questions, a drink had never been so tempting.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On December 28th fellow author and friend singacrossthemoon posted a picture of some YOI merch and commented by quoting "Past the point of no return". ... ... my head completely ran with it and I spent a few days plotting out what was supposed to be maybe... 12 chapters?  
> Ha.   
> Ha.   
> Ha.   
> Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha. Twelve chapters. How foolish I was.  
> On January 1st I sat down typing out the first paragraphs. I haven't stopped since and I haven't stopped bombarding thegrimshapeofyoursmile with chapters to beta (please check out her work, she's amazing)  
> Thank you. Thank you all for this last year, for reading this monstrum, for your encouragement, your support and your love.  
> You made my year. This story made my year.  
> Thank you all so much.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day late, I'm sorry! I got a new job, which means more hours for me and between work, writing (both on SfM and some original stuff) and working to get back into fencing (hopefully this year will see some competitions for me) - life's pretty full right now, but hopefully, things will let up in a bit.

Chapter 21

 

“I think we need to change a few things,” Phichit said over their lunch, causing Yuuri to first startle and then choke on his forkful of noodles (not that the noodles weren't choke-worthy on their own account, over-cooked and under-seasoned as they were).

He coughed, gagged and finally managed to swallow.

Phichit regarded him with a rather curious look. “Are you alright?”

“I think so.” Yuuri coughed again. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, the way things are right now is rather inconvenient,” Phichit continued.

Ah. Now he would tell Yuuri that despite his best efforts he found it rather impossible to continue a friendship with a man he fancied and had gotten rejected by. Which was fair, especially since he had put a not insignificant amount of money in him without getting the results he had surely hoped to reap. It was too bad. Yuuri really liked him, but if this was how things were, then it was only right

“I mean, it is rather inconvenient if you only ever get your expenses reimbursed when you ask for it, I can imagine that this is very unpleasant for you. Not to mention that it is not the way these things are usually done.”

What? Yuuri blinked. “Pardon me?”

“A proper sponsorship usually involves regular payments, right?” Phichit asked.

So, he wasn't going to break off things with him? Yuuri could not help but sigh slightly in relief.

Phichit again cocked his head. “Are you alright?”

“Oh, yes, yes.” He nodded. “Uh, about the sponsorship... I don't know,” he admitted. “I never had a sponsor before and never asked anyone how this might work.”

Phichit nodded. “It would be how I would suggest handling things. You would not need to ask for funds every time something comes up – and since you rarely ever ask anyway this would be convenient for me too. What a sponsor would I be if I wasn't throwing money at you?”

Rich people, Yuuri concluded, were weird. Either they could not be parted from their money no matter what or quite the opposite, they loved spending it on people they liked. Sometimes Yuuri had to wonder whether these sponsors actually liked their protégés as persons or whether they liked showing them off.

In any case, Yuuri had yet to experience an instance in which Phichit heard his protests and did not insist on paying for him. It could be slightly annoying, but for the most part Yuuri could bear with it.

“Well...” If it made things easier, certainly. But still. Yuuri sighed. “I am still taking your money.”

“You are and you should.” Without even flinching Phichit took another sip of that godawful soup. Yuuri resolved that next time they had lunch he would check out the location beforehand and make sure the food was not entirely inedible.

Phichit was clearing off his serving without making even one bit of a face. Yuuri’s respect for him grew even more when he took a sip of his dust-dry, almost colourless white wine with an equally calm, somewhat cheerful expression.

Yuuri did the same. It gave Phichit time to speak.

“You take the money from the king they hand out each week, right?”

“That’s my payment,” Yuuri argued. “And I’d be stupid to not take money when I worked for it.”

Phichit nodded in understanding. “You do. Very hard even and very well.”

“Thank you.” Yuuri sighed.

“So you can consider my payments as an additional wage, I suppose.” Phichit smiled. “A monthly wage for your performance on stage and the occasional entertainment at a private party to which you would either accompany me or be invited, depending on whether I am hosting it or am a guest.”

Yuuri pondered it.

“I mean, if you would rather not do this party entrainment thing, it is perfectly fine,” Phichit said quickly.

Yuuri waved with his hand. “No, no, I am fine with it. In principle. I don't mind it, I mean, but – my nerves are sometimes a bit of a problem. I am getting the hang of it, but...” He cleared his throat. “And I don't want to be paid for work I could not deliver.”

Phichit smiled in a kind, understanding way that made Yuuri wish h could hide himself behind the apple cake that was just brought for dessert. “I think we can keep your entertainment provision somewhat spontaneous then. When you feel fine, you sing, when not, you don't. What do you say?”

Yuuri looked up. “Yes, I‘d say. I can do that.”

“Perfect, how does your evening schedule for next Saturday look?”

This had Yuuri actually jerking back and away from him just a little. “What?”

“Yeah, I am invited to something and if you would like to accompany me, that would be rather nice, I barely know anyone there. No idea how I got invited in the first place, truth be told.” He smiled at Yuuri, bright and broad and toothy.

“Well...” He hardly could say no, right? “Well, I am free-”, which he was, “But that comes a bit out of the blue.”

“Oh.” Phichit blinked. “Oh, yes. I...” He cleared his throat. Then he laughed, short and high, and sighed. “I am sorry. I got carried away.” He laughed again. “I guess I just am too happy to be back here. And I hereby apologise for it, but... I guess I am glad to be back around you and enjoy your presence again.”

Yuuri wanted to smile at this, but he couldn't. Maybe it showed on his face. Or maybe Phichit had realized what he was saying, because his smile flickered and then sighed. “I am aware and I have come to terms with the fact that my feelings are unanswered,” he finally said, “but accept that they exist for as long as they do and...” And now he sighed. “I delight in your company, Yuuri, that's it. I should have been more careful. I am sorry.”

Oh no, no, no.

“No,” Yuuri said, “don't be, really, I...” He took a breath. “I am glad you are back, really.”

Phichit's face brightened.

“But it really is rather sudden and I should...” He cleared his throat. “Can I ask for a few days? Only until Wednesday?”

“Of course.” Phichit nodded, rather enthusiastically and maybe a little too much so. “So until Wednesday?”

“Yes. And if I attend I think I shall sing. I think.” Oh dear. What was he getting himself into? “I might ask you if I can bring someone to accompany me. For security. And such.”

“Of course!” Phichit smiled. “I am somewhat known to most of the soloists, but I will also be very happy to make more acquaintances along the chorus.”

That was good. That was very good.

Yuuri smiled. “Will you be around for rehearsal on Wednesday?” he asked, “I can give you an answer by then.”

He already knew at least the first part of his response. All he needed to do was inform Viktor of this and maybe promise him he would spend the next day with him if he insisted.

On the second part he would work in the next few days-

 

Working on the second part proved to be tricky.

On Sunday he was engaged for a home-cooked lunch with Mila in her and Sara's shared flat and asked her – and got rejected flat-out, as if he was a prospective lover.

“Sorry, she sighed, picking at the goulash she had cooked herself, “no. You know, Sara and I are already engaged that evening...”

“And you can't extract yourself from it?”

“Not really. I am engaged with Sara.”

Ah. Yes, Yuuri could see. And since Yuuri could see, Yuuri could understand. Both Mila and Sara were already taken care of, both well-paid by the kind and both in the care of several sponsors who provided for a lifestyle that honestly could have been rather more lavish but who also demanded their attention.

So of course an evening free of any obligations, an evening only for themselves, was a rather precious occurrence, one not to be wasted.

Yuuri understood and moved on.

“You can ask Yuri,” Mila ~~s~~ uggested, half in jest, and Yuuri almost choked on his spoonful of noodles and goulash. The notes of cinnamon, ginger and red wine rose to Yuuri's nose and made his eyes water.

“What...” he asked, trying his hardest to neither choke on the food nor spit it out. Beef, even goulash cuts, was expensive enough as it was and above all, the goulash was delicious. It would have been a shame to let it got to waste.

He finally managed to swallow, flush it down with some wine and then coughed once more. “What?”

“Well, why not?” she asked, laughing, “he needs a chance to show off his newly won social competences, right?”

It wasn't the most stupid idea, to be sure, especially since Yuri Plisetsky showed up rather often downstairs at Viktor's place. So they had even more contact than what would have been usual for two colleagues.

On a brighter side, this at least meant he and Viktor were on better terms as it seemed. Yuuri had no idea how else he was to interpret Plisetsky's ever growing presence downstairs.

Viktor delighted in it. Yuuri had never seen him smile so much as in these days and that was the reason he didn't complain.

So of course he was there when Yuuri came in, sighing, “All right, Mila said no, Sara would say no if I asked her, I might as well ask him now, get over with it, you know.”

“With what?” Plisetsky asked, looking up from a sheet of paper.

“You were practising something?”

“Just going through some lines.” Viktor smiled. “Yura's German is a little better than mine. He is good at spotting mistakes.”

Plisetsky answered with a reluctant, insecure smile that helped having him look as young as he really was, but he didn't say anything. They were still dancing circles around each other, he and Viktor, having reached a peace that was genuine and healing balm to some of the rifts between them, but was probably still too fragile for them to fully trust in after only a few days.

It was also a remarkable difference from what Yuuri was used to, but it was a pleasant one for sure.

“With what do you want to get over with?”, Plisetsky asked. “How was lunch with the doves?”

“Only one dove, Sara was out with her sponsor. Mila invited me only because she was lonely,” Yuuri corrected.

“How was lunch with the hen then?” Plisetsky corrected himself.

Yuuri suppressed a chuckle and even Viktor's “Yura, be nice,” didn't sound as if he was too serious about it.

“Lunch was nice, although Mila is quite chatty when Sara's not around.” Yuuri rubbed his temple exaggeratedly. “My head still hurts a little.”

“Was the food worth it?”

“The woman cooks as she sings.” Yuuri stretched. “Also, I asked her if she or Sara are free next Saturday evening, they are not, so here I am, asking you and now I asked and have gotten over with it.”

“The party?” Viktor asked, “the one Phichit had invited you in?”

“The one,” Yuuri confirmed and Viktor nodded.

“I think I could do with some company in case music is demanded,” Yuuri admitted, “Which is very likely, considering we're talking about bored rich people.”

“You know about the food?” Plisetsky asked.

“I'm pretty sure it's just the best of the best and I will snatch away as much as I can,” Yuuri answered. “Why? Is the food a factor in your answer?”

“Of course.”

This time neither Viktor nor Yuuri held back their laughter and now Yuuri also took the opportunity to come over to Viktor and kiss him. “Hello.”

“Hello, love.” Viktor leaned his forehead against Yuuri's and ran a hand through his hair.

Next to them Plisetsky gagged softly. “Alright, alright, I'm in. Might even be funny.”

For a moment Yuuri didn't know whether to be relieved at the agreement or shocked at how fast it came.

“Oh, uh – yes, thank you.”

“No need.” Plisetsky shrugged. “You vouched for the food, that's enough for me.”

“Thank you for your trust.” He chuckled. “And thank you for agreeing to come with me.”

“Don't mention it.” He quickly waved. “Anyways, I'll be off now, before you get too smoochy.”

Viktor laughed. “Al right. See you then and thank you for your help.”

Plisetsky waved and then he was off.

Yuuri waited until he didn't hear even a step from him before he said, “Alright, you have seen that too, right?”

“I did,” Viktor chirped, nuzzling his temple.

“Good, then I do hope you can tell me what has befallen him, is he sick or something?”

“He did not seem feverish to me,” Viktor answered. He shrugged. “Maybe he is just growing up at last. Lately he has not parroted anything The Idiot says too.”

“You know, speaking his name won't summon Mr. Wagner to appear before us down here,” Yuuri sighed.

“First – I would rather not run the risk. Second – I refuse to take things into my mouth as ugly as his name. My mouth deserves to be filled with things of beauty and elegance and good taste.” He fluttered his eyelashes at Yuuri and something hot and distinctively melting dropped right down to his stomach.

“You are oddly specific about the things you want and don't want in your mouth,” he purred, “You have any examples in mind?”

To his delight Viktor pulled him closer, chuckled against his lips and then kissed him again.

And now that Plisetsky wasn't present anymore he also wasn't bound to pay mind to him. Yuuri always could appreciate that. He also could appreciate the way Viktor interlaced the fingers of their hands and how he leaned against the desk, pulling Yuuri against him.

He appreciated the way Viktor's breath whispered over his lips as they finally broke apart.

He _didn't_ appreciate that they moved apart, though. Not one bit.

He may or may not have voiced his opinion with a soft, low grumble.

Viktor chuckled. “Whatever you were thinking, keep it in mind for a bit. We can gladly come back later to it.” He pressed a short kiss on Yuuri’s  nose. “After we are done with your lesson for today.”

“What...”

Viktor chuckled. “You know that your lessons come first. Occasionally you remind me of that yourself.”

“Yes, but...”

Viktor placed an index finger on Yuuri's lips. “You're all well into the _Fidelio_. You should have started mapping out the next work.”

“Not really,” Yuuri said, “I mean, we know that we gonna do Lortzing's _Hans Sachs_. I've got the libretto already. It seems fun.”

“It is, I think. I had the libretto in hand myself. It was planned to be staged, but then of course I went under and they needed to cast my role again and it was a mess, really. In the end there was a re-cast but it didn't work out and they quietly moved on to work on something else.”

“Was _Hans Sachs_ ever staged after that in Dresden?” Yuuri asked.

Viktor shook his head. “He wanted to, but before he got the chance he had the uprisings in 1848 came to pass. He had to leave then, of course. He had rather openly supported the nationalists and literalists. It cost him his post here in Dresden, at least for a while.” Viktor sighed. “If only we had known it was only for a while.”

This line of thought was far too depressing for Yuuri. “Maybe he wants to stage _Hans Sachs_ to catch up on some missed opportunity of glory?”

Then again, _this_ line of thought was not much happier.

Viktor sighed and then apparently decided that moping was not a suitable pasttime when one was enjoying the presence of their lover and pupil.

“In any case, this at least gives us a little more time to prepare. More time to get you ready for the try-out.”

“Do you really think this would be a good idea?” Yuuri asked. “As long as Wagner is around there's no way I‘ll get a lead role.”

“Oh, do not say that, you absolutely have all the chances. It simply is a question of knowing the right people and knowing that these people absolutely want to hear you sing.”

“Huh, really.” Yuuri cocked his head. “And who are these people supposed to be? I doubt fellow chorus singers count. Neither does my lover who happens to be supposedly dead and lives under the theatre.”

Viktor shrugged. “I was talking about neither of these options.”

“What then?”

Now Viktor smiled.

Yuuri realized his mistake.

“Have I ever mentioned how important it is to choose the right sponsor?”

“Occasionally. But mostly you were going on how important it is to have some sponsorship at all,” Yuuri answered.

Viktor nodded and smiled a little too eagerly for Yuuri's taste. He had been waiting for this and Yuuri bemoaned his idiocy for walking right into it.

“Money and enthusiasm for your voice are fine and necessary. They are your security. And if one does not shy away from taking things further, life after the stage is probably taken care of as well – not that I judge.”

Yuuri knew very well that Viktor was, in fact, judging.

“And these rich people, what they can offer.” Viktor waved a hand, laughing. “So many entertainments. When you accompany them you get glimpses of their world and you cannot look away from the shine and sparkle. It is enjoyable, for sure.”

Yuuri furrowed his brow. Where was that coming from? “Alright, what is your point?” he finally asked.

“Well, money and providing you with the finer things in life are not necessarily the things a sponsor needs to have or to do in order to further your career. If their voice is of too little consequence, money does not matter. But at the very least, social events offer the option to find a sponsor who _has_ a voice.”

And potentially no vested interest in the man they were sponsoring, was what Viktor was not saying, but clearly thinking and what was hanging in the air between them. Yuuri decided that it was probably best to not press the issue.

He nodded. “I would need a sponsor Wagner has immense respect of, right?”

“Yes. Thankfully, the man is rather easily impressed and always impressed by the same people. Wealthy upper class bourgeois citizens. Even nobility. For all his bluster and grandeur about his democratic ideals, he likes people with high and mighty names quite well as long as he can squeeze some money out of them.”

Yuuri made a face. “At least there's consistency to the impressions he leaves.”

“Try wealthy widows,” Viktor suggested, “They are quite nice for the most part. I am also quite sure that at least some of them will like to have someone exotic to show off.”

“Sounds somewhat like I'd still be selling myself,” Yuuri sighed.

“Not really. You give them a chance to show themselves with you. It gives them an air of worldliness and elegance they might lack by themselves. They want someone exotic to offer them their arm and pay them compliments. To bed they take other people. If they take anyone to bed at all.”

“Considering we are talking about wealthy widows I surely hope so,” Yuuri sighed. “In any case, I can keep my eyes open. If I am really smart and really lucky I might get some new business relations for Phichit out of it as well.”

To this Viktor only huffed.

Yuuri answered to this with a sigh. “Anyways, this is all fine and well, but if I don't sing well it doesn't matter one way or another. So time for my lessons?”

“Time for your lessons,” Viktor agreed, heading for his violin.

It was mostly vocal training today, without much need for Viktor to provide a continuous melody. He made good use of that opportunity to step behind Yuuri, placing his hands on his shoulder (to correct his posture) and occasionally on his stomach (to control his breathing).

It was nice. Yuuri relished in the contact as much as Viktor did.

So it was a good thing that the touching went on for the next week, with Viktor always pulling him close and holding him tight, as he sang through his vocal training and some musical pieces.

In the middle of the week the sheet music and libretti for _Hans Sachs_ were handed out; Mr. Wagner commented on it being a rather nice, intriguing subjet. Mila and Sara had barely waited until he was out of earshot before they had started placing bets how long it might take him to cobble together his own version of _Hans Sachs_.

Yuuri and Viktor got to work on it quite immediately, going through the roles suitable for him; the youthful shoemaker apprentice named Görg, a comedic tenor, was out of question, although they did work on him. Yuuri's talent when it came to delivering comedic lines, much as his timing for these, left much to be desired, Viktor found.

Much more suited for him were Hans Sachs himself, a baritone role and his rival in love, Eoban Hesse, a tenor. Amusingly the woman they were both sweet on was named Kunigunde; Yuuri wondered if German librettists had so few names in their well of theatrical German names to draw from that they reused the ones they got so often that occasionally there was a high chance for a singer to play a role with the same name two times in a row. Then again, it would probably help to make things easier on Mila. Or maybe, if Sara got to play Kunigunde - her soprano being higher and having more of a clear, glassy quality, easily reaching up into mezzo soprano territory, but who ever knew with Mr. Wagner and his casting choices - the women would have something to laugh about and make a joke out of.

Yuuri had to admit, he liked the role of Eoban Hesse more than the one of Hans Sachs, who was more defined over his smitten attutude towards with Kunigunde than over his poetic talents he was ostensibly so famous for. Eoban Hesse was not much different, but at least as the main antagonist (by default) he provided some conflict. That instantly made him more fun to play.

They had a lot more time to prepare than usual and made good use of it by trying to get some modicum of depth into both Hans Sachs and Eoban Hesse.

With that, Saturday came.

Yuuri took his singing lesson and then changed into his good evening suit just before Plisetsky would be down to fetch him.

Viktor watched him straightening his waistcoat – a newer one of deep indigo with a hint of a purple flower pattern stitched along the seams in thin, fine thread – sitting on his bed, chin propped up on his palm. He sighed wistfully. “It is quite mean.”

“What? That I will go out, enjoy Plisetsky's company and have a wonderful evening, surrounded by vapid rich folks who will mistake me for Chinese and wonder if I can even understand them, but still expect me to sing for them of course?” Yuuri sighed. “Yes, Very mean. I feel you.”

Viktor cocked his head. “You do not want to go.”

“Not particulary. I don't like these sort of things.”

Viktor stretched out an arm and Yuuri, buttoning up the last bit, came to him.

Viktor wrapped his arms around Yuuri's waist. “Then why would you not rather stay here?” he asked, propping his chin up against Yuuri's stomach, looking up to him.

“I have already promised to go, how would it look if I was to pull back now?” Yuuri said, running a hand over Viktor's cheek. “Sorry.”

“You can claim your nerves acted up”, Viktor argued, “I am sure Phichit would understand.”

Yuuri chuckled. “I know, but considering it's him he has probably already proclaimed my presence to anyone who might attend this thing. And _they_ would be far less understanding.” Now he weaved his fingers into Viktor's hair. “I'm just glad I don't have to go alone.” He bent down to kiss him first on the brow, then the nose and then his lips.

Viktor's arms tightened around his waist.

Plisetsky's timing was impeccable.

So were his stealth skills apparently because they had not heard steps, nor the soft creak of the lantern in his hands.

They only heard him sighing, clearing his throat and then declaring, “Alright, Viktor, you got him to come back to you after we're done with socialising, now let him go so we can go socialising and he can come back to you a few minutes sooner.”

Yuuri turned around to see him leaning against the screen, a plum-coloured evening suit in place, hair brushed and combed and even something like jewellery pinning his pale green cravat and keeping it in place. As he came closer Yuuri could see that the silver work was kept in the shape of a tiger's head.

Viktor laughed, but didn't let go of Yuuri's waist. “But maybe I just want to keep him here with me a few minutes longer?”

“Bah!” Plisetsky called, “This is disgusting, you hear me, disgusting, disgusting, disgusting!”

“We hear you, loud and clear.” With that Yuuri straightened his posture, pulling Viktor – who grumbled in soft protest – up with him.

“You ready?” Plisetsky asked.

“Only the cravat.” Yuuri grabbed the silvery grey silk and started wrapping it around his neck.

Viktor reached out. “May I?”

Yuuri smiled and handed it to him. “Please-”

“If it gets us out faster, please!” Plisetky called.

Again both Yuuri and Viktor chuckled and Viktor carefully folded, tied and smoothed the cravat over Yuuri's throat. “You should get yourself a nice pin to keep it in place. Maybe an indigo stone or enamel to go with your suit. Not to mention that indigo on a silver grey cravat pretty much goes with anything dark and you look wonderful in dark.”

Yuuri took his hand and kissed his fingers. “I'll be on the lookout for it.” And maybe one for Viktor too. Someday he would get a chance to go out again and then he might need one. Yuuri would have liked to be the one to give that to him.

Viktor returned the gesture of the hand kissing and then kissed Yuuri on the lips.

Usually Plisetsky would have gagged exaggeratedly, but he remained silent now.

When they broke apart, the boy had simply turned away and looked as if he was grumbling under his breath about something.

“Have a nice evening, you two,” Viktor said with another kiss on Yuuri's lips. “Work hard. Have fun.”

“Thanks, we will.” Yuuri finally got away from him.

Plisetsky sighed. “Oh, finally!”

Together they went through the corridor in silence and upstairs to the basement and then further upstairs to the theatre.

Only when they were well out of Viktor's earshot Yuuri asked, “Why did you agree to come?”

Plisetsky snorted. “What? You'd rather I wouldn't have?”

“No, that's not it. I am glad you're coming with me, yes, but –“ He sighed. “It's not like you, that's all.”

“If I hadn't agreed at once we would have had two options at hand. Either Viktor would have begged me to say yes – on his knees potentially, which would be interesting, but also pretty disturbing.” He waved with a hand. “Either that or he would make a fuss about it in front of you. I don't wanna deal with any of it, you know. And I know that neither do you.”

“True,” Yuuri sighed. “Thank you, again.“

Plisetsky took it with his usual, somewhat sullen, silence as they headed towards one of the side exits where they were supposed to meet up with Phichit.

"Keep an eye on it,” Plisetsky finally said.

"I will.”

"I'm serious,” Plisetsky continued. "Viktor can... well, he can get pretty caught up in something and then he... it's not bad, but he gets quite emotional and sometimes extremely so and... urgh.” Once again he only waved with his hands. “Just... keep it in mind.”

“I will,” Yuuri said again. “Thank you. For today as well.”

Plisetsky's answer consisted of a shrug and – when they saw Phichit approaching, clad in deep red to contrast and compliment his bronze skin – a sigh. “You _do_ owe me one.”

“Sure do,” Yuuri smiled.

“Well then.” And with another sigh Plisetsky put a smile on his face. “All right. Let's get social, shall we?”

 

Social in this case meant finding yourself surrounded by quite a few parlour lions and several professional tea party hostesses.

Yuuri did his duty and diligently answered questions about the theatre (marvellous, a great honour to work there), his life as an opera singer (challenging, but fulfilling), how he liked Dresden (queen of German cities), how it differed from Milan (in the weather, the cooking and the wine), how Milan was (queen of Italian cities), whether he could speak Japanese (no), if he found speaking Italian hard (no, considering he had spoken it since his early childhood) and if not maybe a more eastern dress would become him better?

“I can't tell,” Yuuri said, “I never wore clothing of neither Chinese, Siamese, Mongolian or even Japanese fashion, so I have no idea how I would look in them.”

At least his frankness was easily forgiven. The evening was nothing big, just an informal gathering of friends, with shared business or cultural interests. Sometimes both. This meant of course that people’s questions and behaviour were bound to be a bit more intimate than on a banquet after an Opening or Closing night, so to say, and more blunt in their phrasing.

“So?” Plisetsky asked, grinning as they finally got a moment of peace, enough to find something to drink for themselves. “How do you like it so far?”

“Urgh.” Yuuri sighed. “I think I begin to see why you hate it so much. How long have we been here?”

“Two hours. At most.” Plisetsky lifted the glass of wine to his lips and used the opportunity to hide the sneer on his face. When he was done drinking, it had disappeared again.

“Just curious – was it as bad for Viktor as it is for us?”

“Pfft.” Plisetsky snorted and took another sip from his wine. “As if. He outright _enjoyed_ that shit.”

Yuuri sighed. “I wish I could say I was surprised. He probably preferred really bright, colourful clothes?”

“Whenever he could get away with it. Which was whenever Yakov wasn't around to check his wardrobe. So mostly such small, private events like this one.”

Yuuri nodded, while he scanned the room for either Phichit or their hostess – the latter was considerably more hard, since he could not remember her face, only hat she was one of several middle-aged, mousy-blonde, well-dressed ladies present tonight.

“Ah, Plisetsky!”

The very same made a face as his name was called. “Urgh. Sorry, gotta … probably.”

Yuuri smiled, but it was considerably harder than he would have thought. “Yeah, probably.”

Plisetsky turned around to the man who had called out to him and with a broad, rather fake smile, he went to him.

Yuuri was alone.

Not for long, though; the dance of social niceties and not ripping anyone's head off for asking stupid questions continued. (Briefly Yuuri wondered whether he had spent too much time in Plisetsky's company, but that seemed rather unlikely.)

Occasionally Plisetsky joined him in his misery so that they could be questioned together, but most of the time Yuuri was rather woefully on his own.

“Say,” he mumbled to Phichit, who seemed to rather enjoy himself, “I really don't wish to appear ungrateful, but how long have you planned for us to stay here tonight?”

“Not much longer, really. You two will sing in a bit and then maybe another hour and then we might consider leaving.”

Yuuri sighed. That sounded like a long evening.

“I am really glad you two are here tonight with me, both of you – I was afraid I would have to suffer trough this all alone.”

Yuuri sighed. “You know, I hate you,” he said, “just a little.”

“No, you don't,” Phichit chirped, “and you know it. Now come, better we save poor Mr. Plisetsky before he sees himself forced to commit a murder.”

“That would be at least entertaining,” Yuuri argued.

“Yes, and not really good for my business plans, nor the careers of the very people whom I am trying to get ahead,” Phichit argued, “So it’s an entertainment I still would rather not have.”

Yuuri sighed. “It would still be rather funny, you have to admit it.”

They looked around and finally found him, talking to a man of such entire mediocrity that Yuuri recognized him instantly as minister of some middling importance at the Saxonian court.

The boy had a polite smile on his lips that looked so fake that Yuuri could have almost sworn it was actually genuine.

His back was very straight and very stiff, though, which was usually not a good sign.

“Well, the king made several concessions,” the man just said, “I am sure you know of them, right?”

“Yes, I know, I know, and I'm pretty happy about it”, Plisetsky huffed, “but I am not sure whether this is the extent of the changes he is offering or if he plans more, it is rather unclear. Will he appoint more ministers with liberal leanings or is that it, will he continue to re-evaluate the election process for the county government? Of course we as the general public are not informed of anything until it comes to pass. That would be one thing that would be very necessary to change, honestly, a more transparent political process with more access granted to the press to report on. Hopefully the freedom of press and print is a first step towards it.”

The man chuckled. “A budding politician as well as a singer, aren't we?”

Plisetsky shrugged. “I live in this country, so of course I am interested in how it develops and how its rulers treat the people.”

“It is of no concern to you, though, young man,” the man replied. “Your interest in politics and your idealism are rather charming, but not uncommon in young men your age – I would go as far as to say that they are the root of this mess we are in right now. Eagerness and inexperience are the follies of youth and in the young they are forgiven, but they are the reason young people should have no business in politics.”

Plisetsky huffed.

Yuuri decided that it was probably best to step in and lightly touched his arm, smiling apologetically at the man. “There you are.”

Plisetsky turned around to him. “Oh. Time to sing?” he asked softly.

Yuuri nodded. “Guess so.”

Phichit nodded in agreement. “Singing time indeed.” He turned around looking and then waving slightly.

A woman approached them, a polite, almost friendly smile on her thin lips. “Oh, our evening's entertainment?” She spoke in a loud, casual voice, as if simply carrying on a conversation a bit too enthusiastically. It gave Yuuri and Plisetsky no chance to argue.

Phichit made the slightest of faces. “Well, if they would like to regale us with a bit of music?” He turned to them.

Yuuri had had two glasses of champagne to ease his nerves and they had done their job. Not to mention that him not being alone here actually did quite a bit for him. Who would have thought.

He smiled nervously and gave the audience a small wave. “Well... here we are? What would you like us to sing?”

The woman smiled and then, apparently having no idea of her own, turned towards the man to her left.

He, in turn was rather familiar to Yuuri; he remembered him from the staging of _Rienzi._ He had been one of the king's guests and it was not easy to forget a long face with a full, dark beard and a high brow that only got higher thanks to a hairline that was apparently receding with dizzying speed. It had been a good deal lower in August.

The man smiled. “I have heard the two of them in a rather thrilling performance already. I think we can safely let them decide what to sing for us.”

The woman smiled brightly at him. “Yes, of course!” She turned around and smiled at them. “Please, feel free.”

Yuuri glanced at the man who looked at them with something like mild curiosity. Then he turned to Plisetsky.

“We could always meow,” he suggested in Italian.

Plisetsky needed a moment to translate it properly in his head.

Then he raised an eyebrow. “Are you serious?” he asked, in Italian as well. Funnily enough, while his German had only the slightest lilt for an accent, his Italian was as thick and somewhat cumbersome as Viktor's.

“Why not? We both know it and it's funny and makes a good entrance number. They won't complain if we only sing one or two numbers afterwards. Not to mention that it is a good warm-up. I won't sing anything serious without having warmed up and do _you_ think they'd give us five minutes to get ready?”

Plisetsky glanced around.

They were constantly and carefully watched; the skin on Yuuri's back itched slightly from it.

“No, they would not.” Plisetsky sighed. “Alright. Do we sing like last time?”

Yuuri withstood the urge to correct his grammar. “Gladly. You are good for that role.”

Plisetsky nodded.

They turned around and smiled.

The people looked at them expectantly.

Yuuri took a deep breath. This had been his idea. He had to go through with it now. No turning back.

He hummed softly until he found the right note. It bought him a few seconds but then... well then it was time to make a fool of himself. Not that that was anything new in his life.

And at least, he thought with a look at Plisetsky, he would not be alone and hopefully they both would have some fun singing this.

“Mi-iau!” he finally started. “Mi-i-iau!”

The eyes of the other guests grew wide. Shock? Surprise? Doubts on his sanity? Who could tell, most definitely not Yuuri, he was too busy singing like a young tom serenading a sweet, sweet cat lady in what might be her first heat. “Mi-i-i-i-i-i-ia-a-a-a-au!”

He heard a first chuckle.

It was Plisetsky's turn and he repeated Yuuri's melody, adding a mocking tone to it of a vitriolic friend making fun of the lovestruck idiot.

Their conversation developed and then devolved into hissing.

At that point a few outright, loud laughters sounded up.

Good. They had them hooked.

He and Plisetsky now meowed in unison, rocking themselves from side to side comically – yes, good. The good thing about focussing so much on making a fool of himself was that Yuuri completely forgot to be embarrassed of making a fool of himself. That was always good.

Plisetsky grinned at him, then jabbed his elbow in Yuuri's side.

Several people moaned in a pain that neither Yuuri and most definitely not them really felt.

Their rather animated, musically meowed discussion resumed, reached a peak and then, finally a conclusion, sung again in unison.

By that time, pretty much everyone in the room was grinning, chuckling or even outright laughing, applauding them amidst a row of cheers.

“That was wonderful!” their hostess exclaimed – Yuuri still couldn't remember her name. Shame on him. “Rather unexpected – Mr. Semper, please tell me you knew about this?”

The man with the high brow smiled genially. “I would love to claim so, but I have of course never before talked to these fine young men – which is a shame considering they are working in my theatre.” He smiled. “Although Wagner talked a good deal about young Mr. Plisetsky.”

Said young Mr. Plisetsky of course flushed a furious shade of red. “I... I hope only good things?”

“He praised your dedication and your development in the last few months.” He turned his attention to Yuuri. “And I would honestly like to hear more of you, Mr...”

“Katsuki.” Yuuri had still no idea who the man was.

“Ah yes. Get a bigger part again soon, will you.”

Yuuri forced a smile. “I would love to. We might need to consult Maestro Wagner about this, though.”

Sometimes he really wondered how people outside the theatre thought their lives worked.

Mr. Semper, whoever he was, nodded and smiled. “Yes, of course. I think dear Richard needs some talking to. He can be rather stubborn sometimes.”

Yuuri smiled. “You and Mr. Wagner are good friends then, I take?”

Mr. Semper smiled. “I do hope so. After all he claims to make my theatre great again – say, what was this meowing about?”

Plisetsky grinned. “Something he brought over from Milan.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Yes, we sang it at the Scala pretty often,” he said. “It is a bit of a pot-pourri of several operas by Rossini.”

“It was your idea to sing it, I take it then?” Mr. Semper asked.

Yuuri nodded. “We had it once when we were working on _Rienzi_. It was rather fun for both of us, so we figured we can share some of that fun.”

“Well, you certainly succeeded in that,” their hostess said. Her face was pretty when she smiled, in the same mediocre, unremarkable way that marked everything about her. “What else would you like to sing?”

Plisetsky grinned at him and Yuuri sighed internally. Looked like he was to go first. So, his regular first-choice song then?

He cleared his throat, searching for the right notes.

Softly he began to hum and then, when he got it, to sing.

“Va, pensiero, sull’ali dorate; va, ti posa sui clivi, sui colli,“ he began, as pensive and mournful as ever. “ove olezzano tepide e molli l’aure dolci del suolo natal!”

But the ever-present homesickness that came with the song was missing somehow. He still could understand the intense longing for a place that had once been a now long-lost home.

Contemplation took over the melody.

“Le memorie nel petto raccendi, ci favella del tempo che fu!”

And then it rose up again, not triumphant, not even with the resolve to one day return to that lost home, but more like a prayer for deliverance from hardships and pain. “O simile di Solima ai fati traggi un suono di crudo lamento, o t’ispiri il Signore un concento che ne infonda al patire virtù.“

There was a polite round of applause. Yuuri didn't look around; it was rather obvious that his song had not been received as graciously as his performance would have deserved. It was a shame, really. All things considered – no warm up, no accompanying piano – this had been one of his best renditions of _Va, Pensiero_. Ignorants, all of them, he sighed internally.

Then again, _Va, Pensiero_ was about a people having lost their homeland, feeling a keen lack of belonging. People who had this sense of belonging would have a harder time understanding that, yes, especially when it was rather doubtful that they understood Italian well enough to comprehend the words. It was still frustrating.

“Now, we had Italian cats meowing and we had Italian Jews whining,” someone said.

Alright, at least some of them understood Italian and were even somewhat versed in Italian operas. But now Yuuri had something else to be offended about.

“How about something properly German?” the same man continued.

Yuuri once more forced a smile and turned to Plisetsky. “You are more German than me and as much so as I am Italian. I leave this to you.”

Plisetsky shot him a smile that was sharp as a knife. “Do so.” When they exchanged places, Plisetsky stepping in the middle of the small circle that had formed, he gave Yuuri's arm a quick squeeze.

It was a nice gesture and Yuuri smiled at him with a bit more genuine warmth than he had before.

Plisetsky now turned to their audience. “As you all know by now, I am sure,” he began, German perfect and free of even the slight lilt that usually marked his speech, “a good while ago his Majesty […] asked for a private performance of Mr. Wagners _Rienzi_ , with me as Adriano and my dear colleague Yuuri Katsuki in the title role.”

Yuuri noticed that Mr. Semper nodded slightly. Was that good? He decided that it was good. He somehow had to get through this evening.

Phichit sighed softly. “I would have loved to have heard that.”

“Maybe there'll be a proper production in time,” Yuuri answered softly. It wasn't even unlikely, although it was highly doubtful that he would be graced with the title role again. Not with Wagner in place and since Mr. Semper, whoever he was to claim the Royal Court Theatre as _his_ , was apparently a good friend of Mr. Wagner, he would probably not talk to him on behalf of a foreigner he had never really talked to before.

Phichit smiled. “I hope so. I think you'd be wonderful in that role.”

“Since we already shared some of the fun we had during the rehearsals, why not share something from the actual opera?” Plisetsky continued.

“Mr. Katsuki was really impressive as Rienzi,” Mr. Semper commented, looking at Phichit. “Surprising, to say the least, but I have to admit that Mr. Feltsman has a deft hand for putting together an interesting cast.”

In the middle of the circle Plisetsky had begun to hum to himself a melody, looking for the first notes. It would be a bit challenging for him, Yuuri suspected; the mezzo soprano required for Adriano was something Plisetsky had worked hard to polish in preparation of the performance, but it was also something that needed continuous work to stay as polished as it had been. Plisetsky had returned to tenor roles as soon as Rienzi had been over.

The melody he hummed grew a bit louder and firmer and Yuuri recognized Adriano's great aria in the third act, in which he struggled with the question whether to follow Rienzi, who was the brother of his lady-love and whom he had pledged himself to, or his father.

Good call.

“Gerechter Gott, so ist's entschieden schon! Nach Waffen schreit das Volk; kein Traum ist's mehr! O Erde, nimm mich Jammervollen auf!” he wept.

The audience was absolutely entranced as Adriano bemoaned his lot in life; when Plisetsky delved deeper into his conflict Yuuri could hear a few women sigh deeply. Great. Another slew of middle aged, bored society ladies fawning too much over a man young enough to be their son. Plisetsky would just _love_ this. Also it was more than a bit concerning that this of all things was the one thing Milan and Dresden had in common.

“Versöhnung glückt vielleicht dem Sohne!” Plisetsky exclaimed as Adriano got the noble, but not exactly genial idea to attempt a reconciliation between his father and Rienzi, saving him from this inner conflict.

“Er muss mich hören, denn sein Knie umfassend sterbe willig ich!” he declared, “Auch der Tribun wird milde sein; in Frieden wandl' ich glüh‘nden Hass!” He vividly imagined how it would go, how his father and his friend would come to see each other eye to eye and find some middle ground. “Mit Kraft und Segen waffne mich,” he concluded, “Versöhnung sei mein heilig Amt!”

The applause he got was a good deal more enthusiastic than what Yuuri had received and he bowed deeply in reception, before he waved at Yuuri, beckoning him to join him again while the party guests demanded to hear more.

Yuuri with a soft sigh did so.

At the very least he was not singing alone.

They went through one of the duets between Rienzi and Adriano again and then finished off their little performance with Beethoven's Ode to Joy.

It was received with even more applause and Yuuri noticed that Mr. Semper was talking to Phichit for a moment. “Who is he anyway?” he asked, using the moment and nodding to the man in question. “Aside from being friends with Mr. Wagner. Why is he always talking about _his_ theatre?”

Plisetsky looked at him, eyes wide in something like shock. “You don't know him?”

No. No, Yuuri didn't.

“Well, do you?” he asked.

“Not personally,” Plisetsky admitted, “Not yet. But I know who he is, at least.”

“Then please, enlighten me,” Yuuri hissed, “preferably before he's here.”

Thankfully, Plisetsky did as he was asked to. “He's an architect,” he said, “pretty famous one too, he's the one who built the theatre house.”

“Ah.” Yuuri nodded. That most certainly explained why he was constantly talking about _his_ theatre. Yuuri should have guessed so.

Mr. Semper now had reached them, smiling. “Wonderful, truly. You do sound magnificent together.”

Magnificent was not the word Yuuri would have used – he and Plisetsky meshed well, yes, due to being on different ends of the tenor spectrum. That and their different colourations made for an interesting, even pleasing combination.

Still, _magnificent_ was too big a word for that; it wasn't like the heavens opened when they were singing together.

Yuuri thus only smiled politely.

Mr. Semper regarded him with a curious look. “Your voice can go pretty deep,” he then said, “forgive my layman terms.”

“I think you mean my baritone?” Yuuri helped him out.

“Yes, I guess that was the word for that – forgive me. For all that my friendship to a musical genius like Richard is worth I never bothered to learn speaking his language – which is a rather mutual feeling, I never could get him interested in anything even remotely removed from literature or music. One would think at least history would get his interest.”

Plisetsky cocked his head. “Single-mindedness marks great thinkers.”

Mr. Semper laughed. “In that case I thank you for the compliment.”

Plisetsky smiled again and it looked so genuine that Yuuri was almost shocked.

Then, an almost bigger shock, Mr. Semper fixated Yuuri again with a somewhat curious look. “After having heard you as Rienzi the _Va, Pensiero_ surprised me. You sound like a different person. Reminded me of someone, actually.”

Yuuri now found himself cocking his head in a fashion rather similar to what Plisetsky and Viktor both liked to do. “Oh, hopefully not a crow.”

“No, no. Was a singer a few years back, rather talented young fellow. Mr. Plisetsky, I am sure you remember Nikiforov, right?”

Yuuri and Plisetsky exchanged a quick glance.

Then Plisetsky nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“Shame. A shame, I say, but well – oh, I am sorry, I remember – you were very close to him, were you not?”

Plisetsky nodded again. “Yes. It is fine on most days, but sometimes I still walk into a room and expect him to sit there and tattle on about who knows what.” His lip quivered in something like a smile, almost drowned in unshed tears. “And... it's not like I can change anything. And maybe there was nothing I could have done back then, but if he had talked to me or to someone, anyone, maybe...”

Once again Yuuri was impressed.

Mr. Semper all of a sudden looked supremely uncomfortable. “Well, I... I am sure you would have done whatever you could. Which might have been enough or might have not. In any case, decisions other people make are not your fault, dear boy, and you should not blame yourself for them.” He patted Plisetsky on the shoulder, rather awkwardly, and then turned his head. “Oh, there – ah, you two excuse me for a moment?”

Plisetsky, face still torn up, nodded. “Of course. Thank you for your kind words. It means a lot.”

“Of course, my boy, of course. Well, I...” And with that he nodded a goodbye to Yuuri as well and headed off.

The moment he was gone Plisetsky chuckled. His face folded itself back into its usual, slight sneer. “Well.”

Yuuri shook his head. “I'll never get how someone with his heart on his sleeve like you can lie through his teeth like that.”

“Acting, that's it, acting.” Plisetsky flashed him a toothy grin. “Or how did you think I can land a role that calls for an innocent, naïve, virtuous hero?”

“Don't know, I always chalked it up to your natural, youthful charm,” Yuuri joked.

They were left alone for now; it gave them some opportunity to wander around and listen a bit to the gossip that was exchanged here and there.

It was getting late and with each passing hour alcohol seemed to flow more freely and with each glass consumed voices tended to get louder and louder.

“The king's an idiot,” one man declared. “Look at him, instead of having this rabble all shot and hanged and quartered...”

Plisetsky bit his lip.

Yuuri - preemtively he found - grabbed his arm.

“What?!”

“No murders,” Yuuri said, “Not even violence.”

“Oh please,” Plisetsky scoffed, "as if.”

"Better safe than sorry,” Yuuri said. "Let's behave and enjoy ourselves as well as we can, given the circumstances.”

"Not at all then,” Plisetsky sighed.

"There's alcohol," Yuuri offered.

"Point taken. And since we're done singing…” Plisetsky went off to find them something.

Yuuri watched as the boy for a moment was waylaid by a rather matronly looking woman who -the nerve! - took one of the glasses of champagne from Plisetsky's hand and drank in small, measured sips, all the while chatting on and on.

Plisetsky apparently was forced to drink his own champagne to cope with it.

It seemed to take an eternity before the poor boy could extract himself from the conversation, fetch two new glasses of champagne and then make a beeline straight back to Yuuri.

He sighed. "Damn old hag. Blabbed on and on about her nephew and what a shame it was that he is one of those,” he cleared his throat and then continued in a falsetto voice, "awful liberal fools. I always told his father he should have used the stick more often. Thank goodness, Mr. Plisetsky, that you are actually better bred than most young men your age.”

Yuuri shook his head. “Conservative bunch, huh?”

“I wanna puke.”

“Would be a waste of good alcohol.” Yuuri took a sip. “Looks like Viktor will be disappointed. He had so hoped I'd find a new sponsor here.”

“Well, a few have spoken pretty well of your voice. Mr. Semper seemed rather impressed, even,” Plisetsky argued.

“Yes, they are impressed, they like my singing, so they give me the kind advice to return to my home country, I will surely have great success there instead of struggling in a foreign place.” Yuuri smiled until his face hurt. “Don't tell me you've never heard this sort of talk?”

“Not me, no,” Plisetsky said, “Viktor got it at times. You know, I think because he couldn't get rid of his accent. I could, so I could pass better as someone not foreign from here.”

“It's annoying,” Yuuri sighed, “but one gets used to it.”

“Still shit.”

They wandered through the room, smiling and nodding at some people, occasionally stopping to talk to someone for a bit before their round had to continue.

Usually, people would stop their conversation when they passed, glancing at them.

Yuuri didn't like it at all and he almost sighed with relief when he saw Phichit moving towads them. He was smiling, but it was a little strained and he hurried to reach them. “We should go, I think,” he said, “the mood has passed its prime and since you have sung for your supper, nobody will be missing you, I suppose. Neither will they miss me, so... unless you two want to stay?”

“Please,” Yuuri mumbled, “let's go, yes? Please?”

Phichit looked at him and then chuckled slightly. “I see. Let's get out of here then.”

They found their hostess who was less pleased to see them them go than Yuuri would have expected, but she wished them a good night and that they would show up at one of her functions again sometime.

“Whew.” Phichit sighed once they were on the street. “Some of them actually were already starting to muse about how to best get rid of the majority of Jews living in Germany. I figured I do not need to hear this sort of talk.”

Plisetsky sighed and shook his head. “The one thing monarchists and liberals sometimes can agree on and it is that.”

“Common enemy,” Yuuri said. “And if it wasn't Jews it would be another group.”

“Now the mood has soured, huh?” Phichit clucked his tongue. “I talked to some people, Yuuri. They like your singing.”

Plisetsky, in the light of a street lamp, shot Yuuri a triumphant grin.

“And they all wish for you to return back to where you belong, so you can succeed there,” Phichit continued.

Now it was Yuuri's turn to grin triumphantly at Plisetsky. “Told you so.”

Plisetsky rolled his eyes.

“But I think some of them would like to hear you in bigger roles again. Which is good, since these people are not only rich, but also – unlike me – have an important name and influence in the city. Mr. Wagner listens to people he thinks are important, right?”

Yuuri could see how Plisetsky started to bluster at this comment.

So could Phichit. “Mr. Wagner knows whom he should listen to to further both his own career and the financial security of the theatre. He has to consider a lot, so listening to the right people is a useful skill.”

He should become a politician, Yuuri thought. How was the country of Siam run, had Phichit a chance to become a politician?

“I am headed over there,” Phichit now said as they crossed a street and stood in front of the theatre building, “Get home safe, you two. Good night.”

“Good night,” they mumbled and then walked off as well.

Yuuri had planned to go back to the boarding house, but right now the close proximity of Viktor and his bed and sleep was so tempting, so overwhelming...

“Let's go,” Plisetsky said, grabbing his arm, “You're almost sleeping on your feet.” He dragged him off and down the street towards his boarding house.

That was odd.

“Are you and Mr. Feltsman not living in the other direction?” he asked.

“Yep, but Otto lives near your place and I wanted to drop by after we were done there.”

“Ah, I see.” Yuuri nodded and smiled.

“Stop grinning like that, it's disgusting,” Plisetsky grumbled.

Yuuri didn't say anything for a while, but he stopped grinning. “Sure he's still awake? It's pretty late.”

“I know. I always tell him that he needs to get more sleep, but as always – nobody ever listens to me.”

Yuuri once more grinned. “I bet he only stays up extra long because he wants you to come over, tuck him in and kiss him goodnight.” (He most definitely had spent too much time with Viktor.)

“Urgh!” Plisetsky shuddered. “Stop it, that's... urg, _disgusting_!”

Yuuri was almost about to apologize, but then he heard Plisetsky chuckle.

What?

“Maybe you're right. I'll try it out,” he said. “Anyways, I'm off here. Get home safely, yes?”

Apparently, tiredness and alcohol were a combination that served to make Plisetsky actually somewhat sociable.

“I will.”

“And work to get either the Hans Sachs or the Eobanus Hesse, you hear me?” Plisetsky continued.

Yuuri withstood the urge to roll his eyes at the boy. “You too? Can you get off my case already?”

“Will do when you get a lead role,” Plisetsky said. “Night then!”

“Night.”

They headed off their respective directions.

Plisetsky too.

Yuuri sighed. What was the matter with him?

It was so important so so many people, to his fellow chorus singers, to Viktor of course, somehow to Mr. Feltsman and now to Plisetsky – and strangely enough, it was not nearly as important to him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the revolution in 1848, King Friedrich August made several concessions to the revolutionaries. He installed several more liberal ministers to his staff, the Landtag saw some reforms in the election process, press was now free...  
> Basically, it was a first step to a more democratic kingdom. It's unclear where the king's stance was, but my money is on "Neccessary evil to keep folks from trying to start uprisings with the aim to kill me". ... which means his attempts failed pretty badly, since... May 1849. 
> 
> Since it will come up more in later chapters, I'll make one thing very, very clear. I never condone unnecessary violence. I also don't condone using a political/social movement as a pretense and justification for violence.  
> Sometimes radical methods are necessary because every polite, non-radical method straight up failed. That's a very different thing than hoping for or actively causing an escalation of a conflict because you now have an excuse to wreck havoc.  
> Guess where I think the May Uprising of 1849 lands.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Questions are asked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...
> 
> Please don't kill me?

Chapter 22

 

“That is a nice jacket,” Viktor commented one morning as Yuuri got dressed to go up for rehearsal, just before breakfast.

Yuuri smiled at it, put it on and ran a hand over the fabric, happy to show it off for a bit. “Yes, it is. Was pretty necessary, I only brought something suitable for autumn around here. It's almost November, I need something warm for winter, I guess. Or at least something warmer than for Italian winter.”

Viktor nodded. “I see.” He took in the jacket, which was of a nice, deep russet brown that complimented Yuuri's eyes.

He did not like the situation Yuuri was in one bit. He did not like that Yuuri got a monthly wage from Phichit – who would have felt rather insulted if Yuuri had not referred to the money as a wage, but as an allowance of any kind – and he did not like that Phichit had – by paying Yuuri a monthly wage – access to his company.

Yuuri knew it. And to avoid trouble he did not address the matter too much.

And now Viktor had said this.

And now he eyed the jacket.

“Well, you're getting dressed well, I see,” he finally said.

“I saved up for this one, pardon you,” Yuuri huffed, stroking the sleeve of the jacket. The fabric was so wonderfully soft and so delightfully padded. No way he would freeze in this.

Viktor ran a hand over it. “Saved up?”, he asked, tone only slightly mocking. “From what?”

“My wages. From the theatre. The weekly ones. I put something aside from any money I get. For stuff I need and use I usually take the money from my theatre wages.”

“Oh.” Viktor blinked. “Oh. Really?”

“Yes. I save up a little from that as well, usually. Did it before Phichit started sponsoring me.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, he's not happy about it, so I do make a point of occasionally spending a little of it, so he stops complaining.” Pointedly Yuuri lifted his jacket-clad arm. “My day-to-day clothes, however, I am still able to pay for by myself, thank you very much.”

Viktor at least had the decency to look properly ashamed of himself. “I am sorry.”

“It's alright,” Yuuri mumbled because there was nothing else he could say. He could hardly stay mad at Viktor when he was sorry and he wasn't even mad, not really. But it was disconcerting to say the least, how jealous he could be. Yuuri had never given him even the slightest reason to be so – at least not at far as he remembered. Had there been something?

Yuuri often enough sifted and sieved trough his memories, but nothing stood out.

“You are saving up?” Viktor now asked, probably in an attempt to reconcile.

Yuuri nodded.

“Can I know what for?”

Definitely attempted reconciliation.

Yuuri took it and he gave Viktor a smile for it. “Starting funds. For Milan.”

Surprisingly enough, Viktor's face fell at his words. “Oh.” Then he laughed shortly. “Yes. Of course.”

Yuuri wondered for a moment what the problem might be. Then he understood. Slowly he cleared his throat. “Yes, Phichit's money is quite helpful. I got a good start already, but I think I will have to save up a bit longer.”

Now Viktor was smiling almost through tears. “I see.”

Alright, there was no way Yuuri could go on with this even one moment longer. “Don't think so. Have you an idea what fully furbished flat costs that's big enough for two people? In Milan of all places, and I don't think you'd like neither walking an hour every day to the Scala and back nor living in a street where you need a knife under your pillow to sleep somewhat securely.”

Viktor blinked at him. “What?”

“I hope we can get a place in the Via Gesu or Santo Spirito. Nice area, a plaza nearby and a few _osterie_ as well. Celestino lives in the same area. I bet he'll like taking a good look at you.” Carefully Yuuri reached out and took Viktor's hand.

Viktor clutched his fingers. “That sounds – rather nice.” His smile was still coming through a veil of tears that would probably well up in a bit, but now there was clear relief etched on his face.

Yuuri lifted his free hand to Viktor's cheek and ran the thumb over it. “I won't leave Dresden alone.” His fingers weaved into Viktor's hair. “Alright?”

Viktor nodded. “Alright.”

Something was not alright, though. Viktor was still frowning.

Yuuri cocked his head. “Talk to me, please.”

Viktor sighed, rather dramatically, and sat down on his bed again. “I still do not like where the money is coming from.”

“I know, but you'll have to deal with it. I like Phichit, he is a kind and decent man and I won't reject his sponsorship. Not when I actually really wanna leave Dresden sometime soon.”

Viktor nodded. Now he pulled Yuuri down next to him. “It is not that,” he admitted.

Yuuri raised an eyebrow.

“Well, it is that,” Viktor amended, “but not totally. It is – so far it is only your money, his money by extension. But I so far have not contributed one thing to it. You have not even asked me about it yet.”

Huh. Yuuri pondered it. That was a good reason to be annoyed, Yuuri had to admit. “I didn't expect you to contribute right now, honestly,” he admitted. “I mean, I don't know anything about your finances, so... I thought I'd get us started and you'll be able to chip in soon enough?”

This caused Viktor to chuckle. “You are so sweet, love. But surely you did not think I would demand of Yura and Yakov to pay for every single thing down here? Do you know the expenses put into these candles and the lamp oil? Not to mention the matches.”

“I can only imagine.” Although Viktor was rather careful, even frugal with his light sources.

“Well, I have my own financial means – Yakov keeps them for me and takes care of them and pays for whatever I need down here from them. It is quite a bit.” He grinned. “For someone so single-mindedly devoted to theatre and music he has quite a knack for investment and trading. Maybe there is something to what they say about Jews being extremely good with money. It cannot have anything to do with him being Russian, both me and Yura would be up to our neck in debts if left to our own devices.”

That was a rather small sample pool, Yuuri found.

“So – if you need to know how much money you can add to your own savings, ask Yakov, he has the complete overview of it.”

“I'll talk to him, yes. Thank you. That makes it a lot easier.” Yuuri smiled and kissed Viktor's hands.

“I will leave the planning to you, though, if you would not mind. You know Milan best.”

Yuuri nodded. “Of course. I think I will write to Celestino if he knows any affordable places. I think if we plan with the cost for three months in advance we are good. After three months we will both be most definitely well-employed and earn our living.”

Viktor nodded. “I guess it _is_ a good idea to leave it to you.” He kissed him on the nose. “What are your plans for today?”

He had asked this often the last few weeks and Yuuri always answered truthfully. It was of course not a good thing that Viktor asked so obsessively about Yuuri's whereabouts, but _this_ was a discussion for another day. Until then Yuuri figured it was best to answer truthfully, so Viktor could see that he could trust him and that there was nothing to hide.

“After performance? Getting dinner with the others at our usual place.”

“Their cod in cream sauce is amazing,” Viktor sighed. “If you can, bring me some?”

“Gladly.” Yuuri grinned. Then, very slowly he continued, “Tomorrow I'm engaged for lunch with Phichit. Only a bite, with performance in the evening and such.” He had sworn to himself to answer fully and honestly after all.

Viktor's mouth pressed his lips into a thin line.

Yuuri wondered whether he should spontaneously cancel lunch tomorrow.

“You are seeing him almost more than you are seeing me,” Viktor complained.

This settled it for Yuuri and he pushed any thought of cancelling lunch tomorrow aside.

“I accompany him to a social engagement sometimes, yes, but...”

“But tomorrow is not a social engagement, right?” Viktor asked, “So you do not have to go.”

What?

“You want me to call it off, then?” Yuuri asked.

“I would prefer that, yes.” Well, at least Viktor was honest with him now.

It helped Yuuri to keep his huffing to a minimum. “Well, I would not. I happen to like Phichit and I enjoy his company.” Still. He had raised his voice.

Yuuri paused. They had both gotten louder all of a sudden and – how had that happened?

And somewhere distant there were steps. Right, Plisetsky was on his way down here for breakfast. There was no need to discuss this in front of him and most certainly not in the way they did right now.

“And I do not enjoy you going out with him so often!” Viktor called.

The steps were coming closer. Damnit.

But still.

Yuuri took a deep breath and forced himself to lower his voice. “Alright. So say I would cancel lunch with him tomorrow. What's next? I am to end my sponsorship with him, because you're unhappy with it?”

Viktor paused for a moment and listened to the steps as well, before he – in a lower voice as well – answered, “Maybe that would be for the best.”

Something in Yuuri violently, forcefully seized up at his words. For a moment he had trouble breathing and his voice was shaking a little when he finally could speak again. “No. Sorry, Viktor, but no.”

Viktor cocked his head. “What do you mean?” he asked, voice very controlled, very calm and very cool.

“No. I won’t do that. No.” Yuuri shook his head to get rid of the feeling of something wet and hot welling up in his head. “I love you, I really do, you know that, but…” He struggled for a moment and then found his breath again. “No. I am not your property. And the sooner you stop starting to think I am, the better.”

Viktor sighed. “Then pray tell, dear, what is the point of all this?”

His words were enough to knock the air out of Yuuri’s lungs. “What?” he finally got out. To his shame it came out more a wheeze than anything else. He would have liked to shout it.

“ _What_?!”

Thank God for Plisetsky who could take over the shouting, standing next to the bedroom screen.

His face was milky pale, his eyes wide and for a very brief moment he looked very small, very young and very, very scared.

It lasted only for a moment. Then his eyes hardened and fixed in on Viktor. “You…” He walked over to them, grabbed Yuuri by the arm and started dragging him away.

“Hey,” Yuuri protested softly, “what…”

“I'm in the mood for breakfast in open air,” Plisetsky declared, “come on!”

He was incredibly strong for being just a somewhat scrawny, not particularly tall adolescent and Yuuri quickly gave up whatever resistance he had committed to. Not that it had been all that much.

All the way upstairs Plisetsky remained without a word, fuming by himself.

Finally they had climbed all the stairways and high walks and ladders until they reached the roof door.

There was not much room here, with the roof sloping gently and only a very small line running round it, kept safe by only a small, tin iron-forged fence.

The upside was that they had a wonderful view over the city, to the castle and the Royal Court Church on the opposite site of the plaza and over the river Elbe to the other side.

It was a lovely morning in mid-October, sky still dark with a grey-blue lining on the horizon where soon the sun would rise.

The last stars were twinkling trough the clear air that was quite warm for the season and the time. It would be another wonderful day, sky bright and of an intense azure like in summer. The foliage of trees seaming the riverbanks had turned from a deep shades of green to rich, vibrant hues of yellow, orange and red, a sunset to walk through in the middle of the day.

Cool, still summer-soft early morning air whispered over Yuuri's cheeks and he took a deep breath, inhaling the crisp, earthy scent of autumn.

Then he turned to Plisetsky. “Sorry. I... you really shouldn't have heard that.”

“Probably.” Plisetsky shrugged. “Did, though. A good deal of it. You guys were loud.”

Yuuri groaned. “I know.”

“First time, though?”

“Getting loud? Yep.” He sighed.

“And...” Plisetsky gestured.

The grey line on the horizon grew, spread, bled out into the night sky, sucking all the darkness, all the colour from it for a moment.

“And the stuff he said?”

Yuuri shook his head. “Definitely not.”

Plisetsky nodded. “Good that you got a bullshit threshold after all. You put up with so much from him I was wondering about that actually. Good for you.”

Yuuri sighed and then sat down on the gentle slope of the roof. He had had more comfortable resting places in his life. “I'm not so sure about that.”

“Yes, it's good,” Plisetsky insisted. “And I mean, there's not much choice in what can happen. Either Viktor realizes he's been an ass and you guys make up or...” He shrugged, “or that's the end of it. Will be only one of these two.”

Yuuri's stomach lurched so hard that he wanted to vomit over the fencing.

And still he found the energy to laugh. “Well, thank you for sharing your sixteen years of life experience, oh ancient sage one.”

Plisetsky, sitting down next to him, huffed. “I'm seventeen, thank you very much. And it's not like you've gotten so much more expertise than me in this area.”

“I'm older than you.”

Plisetsky snorted. “So? Does that make you more experienced?”

“In several matters yes.”

“Alright, let's focus on the matters at hand,” Plisetsky said, smile growing ever wider. "How many actual, factual lovers have you had in your life?”

“Counting Viktor?”

The grin on Plisetsky's face grew even wider. “Ha! None. Thought so.” He nodded. “Same here. Minus Viktor's role in your counting, of course.”

Yuuri nodded thoughtfully. “Of course. That would have been supremely awkward. Almost as if Thomas and Alex were to start something.”

“Ew!” Plisetsky made a face. “ _Ew_ , I really didn't need _that_ image!”

Yuuri chuckled. “So, things with Otto are fine?”

Plisetsky gave him an odd look. “Who told you?”

“Oh please.” Yuuri snorted. “You know, the good thing about wearing glasses is that I can actually see pretty well what's going on in front of me.”

“Yeah, sure,” Plisetsky huffed, but then he nodded and smiled. “Yes. It's all good.”

It was as good a topic to talk about than any other, and it was a lot better than talking – or even thinking about his own misery.

“How did you even met? I mean, you both work here at the theatre, but you... well, you know best that you are not the most social of persons.”

“Your talent for diplomacy is almost disgusting,” Plisetsky admitted.

“Thank you very much.” Yuuri chuckled. “But you still don't talk much to the other singers and I think in the beginning I never seen you look at anyone here even with your backside. And trust me, if you were friendly at least with the stage hands people would have talked about it.”

“I know.” Plisetsky shrugged. “We didn't actually meet here. He just hired here as a background painter a while ago. We met early this year for the first time. In February I think – yeah, February. 15th. Was a Sunday and on Sundays some people would usually meet up somewhere and discuss – stuff. I was there whenever Yakov would let me go. He and Viktor didn't like it, but they also didn't see much harm in it, at least at that point. And on the 15th Otto was there too. He didn't say much, mostly he sat there and listened and drank two beers over the whole evening.”

February. A month later the German countries had been wrapped up in an attempt at a revolution.

“So, how did he propose to execute all monarchs? Beheading or shooting?” Yuuri quipped.

“None,” Plisetsky said. “He was quiet mostly, but when a few guys got worked up he said...” He cleared his throat, and lowered his voice. His face grew stern, probably in an imitation of their conversation topic. “And what's the point of dying heroically and leaving work undone when you could not provoke a fight, stay alive and work on actual solutions that don't require your mothers to bury you instead?”

Viktor was right, regarding Otto. He seemed almost disturbingly alright and even more almost disturbingly good for Plisetsky.

But still.

“Aren't you the one who always grumbles about abolishing anything resembling a monarchy and using violence if necessary?”

“I do.”

“And you still talked to him after he said that?”

Plisetsky shrugged. “He's handsome, that goes in his favour.”

Yuuri chuckled.

“And... he talks to me. Like, really talks. He wants me to listen and he listens to me and we can actually discuss things and... and...” His lips quivered into a small smile. “You know, when we first got here Yakov warned me and Viktor not to mention that we were actually serfs. We were Russians. That made us strangers already and he is Jewish, so doubly so. But these are normal things. Outside of Russia, serfdom is not. And he worried how people might act when they'd know, so he warned us to never mention it to anyone. Yakov didn't even want Mr. Wagner to know and we never said anything – I mean, Viktor told you, but aside of that...”

Yuuri nodded. “It must have sucked.”

“It did.” Plisetsky sighed. “Probably more for him than for me because I was still so young when we left. Not even those aristocratic idiots over there would consider a child for some of the stuff they... anyways.” He cleared his throat. “It slipped from me one time when I stayed over at his place.”

Yuuri nodded.

“Stop grinning like that, I bet you're talkative too in that mood.”

Yuuri hadn't noticed that he was grinning. In any case, the fact that he was seriously discussing something related to his activities in bed with Plisetsky was so strange that he was by now very sure that he was in fact still sleeping, still dreaming and that this morning, anything after him getting dressed today, had not really happened yet.

Just to test this thesis he pinched himself in his arm.

It hurt. And he was still here, on the rooftop, Plisetsky at his side. No dream. It would have been too nice.

Plisetsky cocked his head curiously at him. “You alright?”

“Yeah, I am. Sorry. I am listening.”

“Anyways, we were talking a bit about our families and stuff and I was so careful not to talk too much about Viktor – I mean, I trust him, but still – it's nothing that's of too much concern to him, so...” He shrugged. “Anyway, it slipped from me.”

“And?”

“He only said what you said. That it must have sucked. And then he hugged me and that was it.” Plisetsky laughed a little. “I... I don't know what I've expected, honestly, I mean it's not something I talk about with everyone – I mean I don't talk much with anyone anyway, so...” Once again he cleared his throat. “I think Yakov was worried that people would think I am still a serf. Or act like one. Or demand I do and... maybe some do. Not Otto, though.” He took a deep breath, all the while his ears grew ever more red. “You know, I think I do love him.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like… I mean… how does one know this shit for sure anyways?”

Yuuri snorted. “Why are you asking me? You’ve been professing my lack of worldly wisdom. You tell me.”

Plisetsky looked ahead, where the pale sky was brimming with soon to burst up with colour. “You're longer at this, that's all.”

Yuuri nodded. “I see.” He bit his lip. “Guess the least stupid answer would be _You know when you know._ ”

“That's bull,” Plisetsky declared.

“It's only the least stupid answer I got, I never said it's not stupid.” Yuuri felt a headache budding behind his temples. “I mean, this whole thing is stupid.” There was a laugh caught somewhere in his throat and he let it out. “ Look at me.”

Plisetsky did for a long while. “So,” he finally said, “we know what can happen. Question is what do you want to happen?”

“You really need to ask?” Yuuri ran a hand over his face, tired all of a sudden, despite the early hour and despite the sleep he had gotten. At least after Viktor had finished fucking him well and thoroughly into the mattress. The thought hurt and when he blinked he found that his view was unclear.

“We already established that it's a mess,” Plisetsky said, “better keep it simple.”

Yuuri took off his glasses and wiped his eyes, more angrily perhaps than he should have. “Alright, in simple terms, I… I..” Not so simple after all. “I... I don't want to... I can't imagine my life without him – I don't want to imagine my life without him, I want him with me, even when he has a fit of weirdness again-”

Plisetsky snorted.

“Weirdness even by his standards,” Yuuri amended. “I take this with everything else. I really...” He sighed. “But this... I can't just let this go.”

“You want him to apologize,” Plisetsky summed up, “good.”

“Yes and I want him to get any funny ideas about ownership out of his head,” Yuuri sighed. “Until then I won't see him.”

Plisetsky looked at him as if he had sprouted a second head. “What – wait, alright, that sounds a bit excessive, don't you think?”

Yuuri sighed. “I do, but – he's been excessive too, don't you think?”

“Fair point,” Plisetsky admitted. “So you punish him with the absence of his most precious, wonderful, ever-shining light?”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow.

Plisetsky shrugged. “When he didn't think his feelings would ever be answered he was very... lyrical.”

“I see.”

“It got even worse when he turned out to be wrong.”

“For some reason I can't find it within myself to pity you. In any case, yes, that's the plan. I... he needs some time and opportunity to mull over what he said. And also if I went down and saw him, I...” Yuuri laughed a bit. “Well, I'd probably kick any resolve I head somewhere where no sun ever shines and would immediately say that everything is alright and – I would only regret that in the long run.”

Plisetsky nodded and again looked at the rising sun. By now the air was golden with all the promises only a new day could make. “You're remarkably calm,” Plisetsky finally said, “You know, I would probably be mad as hell. Make a bit of a spectacle of it.”

“I have no trouble whatsoever picturing that,” Yuuri commented dryly. “And yes, I am mad. I am really mad, and angry and...” He shook his head.

“So you're mad at him and angry and you still say you love him?” Plisetsky shook his head, bemused by the idea.

Yuuri sighed. “Guess why I'm so angry. If I didn't care for him – or for us – so much, it wouldn't hurt like that, but...” And then it got out. “Like, who the hell does he think I am?! What does he take me for, like...” The dam had broken. “Am I wearing a tag around my neck, reading _Property of Viktor Nikiforov, do not touch_ or what?!”

“Would look ghastly on you,” Plisetsky commented.

“And you know, this... this whole idea behind it. Like he's suspecting I am going behind his back. That's the worst. That he thinks so little of me. And all of a sudden.” He took a deep breath. “So, basically, he has asked a really good question.”

“What?” Plisetsky furrowed his brow. “No, you don't mean that, you just said...”

“I know what I've said and I mean it, but... if he doesn't trust me and if that can't change, then – what's the point? If he's second-guessing everything I do, then there's no point in trying to have a life together unless we wanna make each other miserable and... and I still wanna try and...” Again his view got blurry. Again he took off his glasses and wiped his eyes.

But this time, wiping his eyes didn't work as well as he might have hoped. “... but if it's only me trying to work it out then it's pointless, so...” Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

“Sounds like it's a duet you're not getting right,” Plisetsky mused. “If only one person sings their part right it sounds shitty. If only one person tries to sing both parts it fails.”

Despite himself Yuuri had to laugh. “You know, that's an oddly fitting description.”

“And you got to this line of thinking without having dealt with it before.” Plisetsky nodded to himself. “You're a lot smarter than you look.”

“I don't know if I am supposed to feel flattered or insulted. But... the good thing about being a bit of an outsider is that you can watch people dealing with each other and learn from them without having to deal with the actual incident yourself that brought that lesson. Makes life a lot easier. That is, if you remember that lesson.”

“You're still pretty calm.”

Somewhere deep indside of him Yuuri found the energy to joke. “I got a nervous breakdown scheduled for later this week. Need my energy for that.”

Plisetsky nodded. “Give me a note, I'll snap you out of it if Viktor's still busy figuring out his lines.”

“Thank you.” When Yuuri wiped his eyes this time they stayed dry.

“And since we were already talking about music, I suppose it's time for rehearsals. Let's go down.”

Yuuri nodded and they sneaked downstairs the same way they had come up. Before he went to chorus rehearsal he stopped by at his dressing room and washed his face; it was probably for the best if his friends didn't see that he had been crying. They would correctly guess that it was his love life that was giving him trouble and would – each in their own way – try to be supportive. Alexander would slap his back and invite him to drink tonight. Thomas would probably start a declaration of how vile and useless women were. Andreas would chime in and only make concessions hat not all women were vile and useless when Mila and Sara would show up.

And Mila and Sara in turn would invite him for dinner or lunch sometime soon, which of course would be rather heavy on champagne so he could be miserable in their company and would not have to pretend to be miserable over a girl. It was all very well-meaning and it was not at all what Yuuri needed right now.

He showed up for chorus rehearsal and sang through his parts – or at least he tried to.

Mr. Feltsman shot him a rather annoyed glance, but didn't say anything. Nor did he take him aside after rehearsal to berate him for the mistakes he had made today. Yuuri had seen Plisetsky talking to him before rehearsal, so he suspected that Mr. Feltsman knew the cause for Yuuri's poor performance. Maybe he also didn't want to risk Yuuri suffering an actual breakdown and left him alone. It was just as well. He didn't feel like a breakdown was coming, but the understanding that laid behind the silence was appreciated nonetheless.

Less appreciated, in a sense, but still keenly noted was the fact that Viktor was not listening today. Maybe Yuuri should have expected that. Viktor surely was just as shocked from that fight as he was, right? Of course he would not come and listen to Yuuri.

Or maybe he had really meant what he had said and was now acting on it.

What is the point?

If he was really asking himself that question – or worse, if he had already found his answer – maybe he would not listen anymore.

He had noticed Viktor's absence the moment he had taken his place in the chorus.

It had contributed to his poor performance.

And of course it wasn't getting any better when they moved on to soloist rehearsal.

“Ah,” Mr. Wagner suddenly called.

Yuuri flinched.

“Mr Katsuki, could you please find it in your heart to not miss all of your lines?” Mr. Wagner smiled up to him, all pleasantries and barbs. “Some of us would like to actually work here.”

Yuuri wished that he could actually care about it. “Sorry,” he only mumbled.

Mr. Wagner sighed. “You know, I am still a bit on the fence about the casting for _Hans_ _Sachs_ ,” he said, loud enough so they all could hear. Of course. “Especially after Miss Babitch and Mr. Erhardt talked me into still holding a try-out for everyone to audit for a role. They argued I might find talent I have not cared to look at there. I suspect they both were talking about you. But looking at how you repay your co-workers for all their efforts I am wondering if I actually should not just put you back into the chorus completely.”

Now for that Yuuri cared. At least a little more than for anything else Mr. Wagner had said so far. He felt his face go a little numb.

Mila tried to come to his rescue. “That's hardly fair,” she complained.

“My dear, I know, but it is even less fair towards a singer if he has to work with a partner he cannot rely on to remember his lines and get his cues. Imagine how it looks like if this happens on stage.”

Yuuri bit his lip.

Mr. Wagner looked at him, still smiling. “I am sure you agree with me, Mr. Katsuki?”

Yuuri nodded slightly. “Yes. But I...” He took a breath. “I am not well today, I fear. Bad day. Tomorrow is another day. I will sing better then.”

“Bah!” Mr. Wagner shook his head. “I can guess why and it won't do. I don't care whether you will sing better tomorrow. I don't care if you will sing _well_ tomorrow. I wish for you to sing well now, today, at this moment, you hear me?!”

“Clearly,” Yuuri replied, face numb, stomach cold, body hollow.

“Good. Then save us all your excuses. Either you sing well at all times or you should consider another means to make your living. We can't work and stage an opera if we have to pay attention to every single mood and whim and trouble each of our singers have rather than expecting them to act like the professionals they are paid to be.”

He was right. That was the worst thing about this. Mr. Wagner was right, as much as Yuuri disliked him. Whether Yuuri was fine or not was not entirely relevant to this. He was paid to sing, so he would sing. Or should sing. His personal life had no place on stage.

And now he had given him ammunition to fire at him again whenever he felt like it.

He nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Mr Wagner fixed him with a long, hard stare and then turned around. “Alright. Mr. Erhardt, you and young Yuri please.”

Johannes Erhardt walked past Yuuri and clapped his back in passing.

He and Plisetsky sang through a duet and then Plisetsky and Mila went through a few lines together.

Mr. Wagner corrected them – harsh as usual and Mila pursed her lips before singing and implementing his corrections.

“Better.” Mr. Wagner nodded. Then he turned around. “Sara, dear.”

Sara, standing next to him rolled her eyes, just a little, but she checked her face and smiled that _special_ smile she had reserved only for him. Yuuri prayed that he would never give her – or any woman for that matter – reason to bestow a smile like that on him.

She sang through her part. Mr. Wagner said nothing and she returned to her place next to Yuuri, leaning on a beam. “So, what do you think?” she whispered in Italian.

“What?”

She smiled. “I know I didn't sing as well as I should or could. But he didn't say anything, so he probably hopes for me to continue like this and be a huge disappointment. Mr. Feltsman would never allow me to sing like this and we both know it.”

“Do I look like Mr. Feltsman?” Yuuri huffed.

Sara chuckled. “Come on, give me your opinion.”

“Pretty emotionless,” Yuuri finally whispered back. Sara had wanted his opinion. His opinion she got. “You are somewhere else with your mind, right?”

“Same as you,” she nodded. “Honestly, I'm worried about you, but honestly, I also don't really care for impressing him.”

“Which is bad, considering he's your employer?”

“I guess,” Sara shrugged, “can't bring myself to care.”

“On a more technical note, your lower notes were kind of weak.”

“Urgh,” she sighed, “I think I'll need some help with these again. What do you think?”

“Mr. Katsuki!” Mr. Wagner called.

Yuuri sighed silently and then turned to Sara. “Talk to you later, alright?”

“I offer food.”

Yuuri smiled and then stepped up.

Mr. Wagner, sitting in one of the velvet lined chairs smiled up to him. “I think we are both in luck that I am in a good mood today. Shall we try again, hm?”

He was talking to him like he might to a petulant child.

Yuuri wanted to kick him in the face, alas, his skills had never run in the aggressive direction. Also actions like face-kicking were more in line with Plisetsky's behaviour and there was no way the boy would do anything like that to his revered Mr. Wagner.

So he just nodded.

“Alright then, same as before.”

Georgi played the piano, Yuuri listened, waited for his moment and then sang.

It was alright. Not his most stellar performance – he was honestly wondering if he would ever have one of these again – but it could pass. No missed notes, no botched lines.

Mr. Wagner nodded. “Well then. Next. Mila, your solo!”

Rehearsal went by and Yuuri at least tried to sneak away and to his dressing room. Maybe Viktor would be there? Maybe they could talk and clear things up, maybe it would be alright?

Maybe they would clear things up?

Maybe?

What if not? What if Viktor was too mad, too hurt, too angry to wish for them making up?

What then?

He almost didn't want to find out. But at the same time he also wanted to find out and he so desperately, desperately wanted to get away from here, somewhere quiet without so many eyes looking at him as if he was about to scream or break down – which, to be fair, he probably would if someone actually spoke to him.

So, one way or another, his dressing room won.

“Mr. Katsuki!”

Oh, no, please no.

Yuuri suppressed a groan when he heard Mr. Wagner's voice and his step approaching. As if this day wasn't bad enough already.

He stopped in his tracks and turned around. “Yes?”

Mr. Wagner came to him, still smiling in that way that made Yuuri's insides cringe. “How good to catch you.”

Urgh. Here it came. He would now hear that he better clear out his dressing room.

“That was not a good day today, huh?”

“No. I am sorry. You are right, I should not let my personal life affect my work.”

“Hm, hm.” Mr. Wagner nodded. “I hear, though, this is the first time this happens.”

“Yes.”

“Despite your – rather sensitive disposition?”

Right now the only thing Yuuri was sensitive to was the urge to hit him in the face. He took a deep breath. “I am working on it and it got a lot better, also thanks to my co-workers who are all very understanding and supporting. It helps a great deal to be able to handle it on my own.”

Mr. Wagner nodded. “Yes, yes, I've heard similar sentiments. Help is appreciated and often accepted, but not always necessary... good. Very good. I was on the fence about you, as I said, but I think with this knowledge I don't have to worry too much over my decision. You are still free to partake in the next try-out for _Hans Sachs_ if you feel up to it.”

Yuuri nodded. “I will. Thank you.” It was almost honest.

Mr. Wagner shook his head. “See, you will now hopefully understand I do disapprove so much of my singers having love affairs going on. It poses such a distraction and you need to be made of especially strong stuff to keep your focus where it belongs.”

Again Yuuri nodded and he sighed. “Yes, sir.” He sounded a bit like Georgi, he found.

“No need for titles, my boy.” Mr. Wagner nodded. “In any case, see you tonight.”

“Yes, sir.” And then he finally could leave.

He went to town to fetch some food. Then returned and changed into costume and Viktor was not there.

Miraculously Yuuri sang and made it through the evening without mistakes.

Viktor was not there. Viktor was not listening and Yuuri was keenly aware of it.

He went back to his dressing room and nobody was there waiting for him.

Oh well. Yuuri would most definitely not make the first step with his here. He would wait. Viktor was in the wrong, Viktor had to come to him and apologize and until then, Yuuri would have to wait.

And if he didn't come, if he wouldn't apologize – well, then... Yuuri didn't want to think about that.

He shrugged on his jacket – that stupid, damn jacket – and then walked to the door. Then he waited. Maybe Viktor would show up now? Maybe he would come out just when Yuuri was about to open the door? Yuuri may not take the first step, but he was certainly willing to wait for Viktor to do so and to give him a chance.

But Viktor didn't come out and after a solid minute of waiting Yuuri honestly felt too stupid standing there and waiting, so he opened the door and went out.

He was not the only one to leave a room at that moment.

The door to Plisetsky's room opened the same moment Yuuri closed his, but instead of Plisetsky Otto Becker left, looking around before walking off.

A while later Plisetsky came out, clothes in order, hair combed back and all in all rather presentable.

Also he was wearing the broadest, happiest, goofiest smile Yuuri had ever seen on him and it actually looked really good on him.

He came to him. “Had a good time?”

Plisetsky nodded and his smile grew even more mellow. “Can't complain.”

“Good for you.” Yuuri smiled. “Despite Mr. Wagner's advice?”

Now Plisetsky shrugged. “Well, it's not like I am distracted, right? I sing as well as ever, so it doesn't really apply to me. As long as I deliver a good performance, nobody is disappointed and gets to complain and I get to live my personal life the way I see fit. Everybody wins.”

Yuuri chuckled. "Weaselling your way around the rules. How very adolescent of you.” But it was good to hear, just so good; Viktor would be so relieved to hear that Plisetsky so blatantly and knowingly disobeyed Mr. Wagner's orders and wishes. And there he was again. Urgh.

“You alright, though?” Plisetsky asked.

“l didn't freak out, so I guess I am fine,” Yuuri replied, although, in all honesty, he was anything but. “Mr. Erhardt didn't have to give me alcohol this time around. That's good.”

Plisetsky nodded. “It was different last time. This time Viktor didn't spring the shit on you just like that, right?”

“No, he didn't,” Yuuri sighed, “doesn't help matters, though. I still feel like shit.”

“Anyone would, I suppose. I mean, if Otto...” Plisetsky shook his head. “Anyways, what are your plans for tonight?”

“Funny that you ask,” Yuuri sighed, “I actually wanted to go out with the other guys, but right now...” He shrugged, “I don't feel like it.”

“You won't spend the evening alone, though,” Plisetsky declared.

“Yuuri!” they heard Andreas calling from down the hallway, “You ready for dinner!”

“We're coming!” Plisetsky called back and grinning, he grabbed Yuuri's arm. “You wanted me to have dinner with you guys, right? Let's go.”

They arrived at the small group and Plisetsky asked cheerfully, “Mind if I join you? Katsuki offered it to me a while ago, but I never had that much time.”

Alexander blinked at him, but he nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Great! I'm starving by the way, so I hope they serve big portions there.”

“Oh, they do,” Alexander assured him.

They were talking and laughing among each other, with Yuuri occasionally joining in, but most of the time looking on, listening, sometimes even shaking his head in bemusement. Plisetsky was actually and actively social and delightfully so, and Yuuri simply couldn't shake the feeling that he was being so for his sake. Which was sweet and adorable on the other hand and on the other hand very, very strange, disturbing even.

Plisetsky got along with them well enough and honestly, who was even surprised anymore? He was on fire when discussing republican matters with Thomas, listened to Alexander raving on about some new book he had recently read and when Andreas – after his third beer – started his usual aria towards the divine beauties Sara Crispino and Mila Babitch – he leaned over to Yuuri and asked with a chuckle, “He hasn't realized neither of them are interested?”

“Oh, he has,” Yuuri sighed, “has he ever, but – ask him about it. Go on, ask him, he will be happy to provide an answer.”

Apparently, Plisetksy was susceptible to the magic of German beer, since now he emptied his mug and fixed his eyes on Andreas. “You know they don't care for male attention, right?”

Nice way of putting it, Yuuri found.

Andreas sighed, deeply. “I know. They are both entirely dedicated to their art and the stage. No way any normal man could ever dream of laying a finger on them.”

Plisetsky rolled his eyes.

Yuuri chuckled. “Yeah, I know,” he whispered.

“So?” Andreas continued, “As if my admiration and affection depend on any prospect of reciprocation.” And another sip of beer went down his throat. “And who could begrudge me, huh? Are they not deserving of any adoration and affection one can bestow on them?”

Plisetsky, again, rolled his eyes.

“They are pretty fine girls, really, good sports,” Thomas agreed. Which was an opinion they all shared and so they nodded.

“You guys know them pretty well, right?” Alexander asked, “You think they'd like to join our little round here?”

“Are you crazy?!” He shook his head. “Our gracious ladies in our midst?! What's next, the king at the same table with some democrats?!”

“Now _that_ would be a sight to behold,” Plisetsky grumbled.

“Don’t think so,” Andreas replied, serious all of a sudden. “I mean, it would be interesting and it would _look_ like something’s gonna happen, but in the end I don’t think it would be productive. Quite the opposite, even. So much for the king. And for our ladies - let’s face it, it would actually ruin the fun. We’d behave too much for our own good the moment they are here.”

Plisetsky barked out a laugh that reminded them all very much of Mr. Feltsman. “Clearly you've never listened to Mila when she's mad, right? I mean, that is... well, she's got a mouth like the worst coal miner.”

“That's... an unusual picture,” Alexander commented after a moment.

“She's good at acting, yes, but even she can't fool you when you work a lot with her.”

“Mila Babitch using coarse language.” Andreas shook his head, obviously marvelling at the prospect. “That's almost as if the king of Prussia would have actually honestly honoured the dead.”

Plisetsky snorted. “You know, Mila can be a bit of a goose, but she doesn't deserve that.”

“Don't insult her like that!” Andreas called.

“Have to agree, she's not much of a goose,” Yuuri said, “more like a magpie.”

There was a general round of chuckling around the table.

“What did the king do, though?” Yuuri continued.

“Nothing,” Alexander said. “At least not on his own.”

“So?”

Alexander sighed. “Sometimes I forget that you are a foreigner. And then I get a reminder.”

“Thanks a lot,” Yuuri grumbled. “Go on, enlighten me.”

“Well, in Prussia the March uprisings went a bit more successful than here. Their king was seized and was made to honour their dead as well as make a show of himself as an ally to the democratic cause.” Andreas sighed. “Honestly, nobody believed he was serious about it, and of course he wasn't.”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow. He did not ask whether anyone would have expected the king of Prussia to be honest in this forced proclamation, but the thought did cross his mind, followed by the musing that probably no, nobody had expected him to, but being fervent believers of their ideology they were still offended that it wasn't as fully genuine as they would have liked. With some people, some other people just had no way of doing it right, it seemed.

He was wise enough not so say anything to that effect.

Andreas sighed. “Wish we could have kept _that_ momentum, could you imagine?”

Alexander nodded. “Maybe things would look a bit different now.”

Now Plisetsky was sporting a frown again as well and it was even more pronounced than his usual one. “Yeah. Are there any news about how thing are going in Vienna?”

“So far no,” Thomas said.

All of a sudden the mood had turned somewhat glum, the conversation slightly jumbled and disjointed by both heavy, deep thoughts and heavy, deep looks into their respective beer mugs.

“I mean it would probably be easier if we would finally _have_ a unified Germany,” Andreas sighed. “In that case, most people could even live with a monarchy, honestly.”

“Urgh,” Plisetsky grumbled.

“It's true, though,” Andreas said, “you're Russian, so maybe you don't understand it like that, but – most non-conservative Germans would not mind a monarchy if it was a German monarchy.”

Plisetsky raised an eyebrow, but remained silent.

“And if we get some sort of say in political matters,” Alexander added. “I guess the way things are run in England is best. A monarch only reigns, but doesn't actually rule.”

“Fat chance of getting that,” Thomas said, despite Plisetsky making a face at the mere notion of monarchy – or maybe the notion that he was incapable of understanding because of him not being born in a German-speaking country. “I mean, we would need an already crowned king to accept kingship over all of Germany, right?”

“Suppose you'd need to,” Yuuri answered carefully. “It's always easier to add followers to someone who already has a claim of sovereignty and has acted upon it, rather than raise someone from total oblivion.”

“Would be the sovereign of a German state strong or well-connected enough that he wouldn't have too much opposition from others,” Thomas continued. “So either a diplomatic powerhouse or someone with military strength. Or both.”

“That would be Prussia, right?”, Yuuri asked. “I mean, Prussia or Bavaria.”

“Not Bavaria. They have too close ties to France to ally themselves with any German course against them and most countries around Prussia...” Alexander made a face. “Well, cats and dogs get along better.”

Plisetsky chewed his lip in thought.

Maybe he remembered some history lesson he had gotten under one circumstance or another. A few decades ago Prussia and Russia had been allies, tied together by a mutual hatred for the self-declared French Emperor Napoleon; the latter one, incidentally had risen from the people and had vowed to uphold the republican values of their revolution. Yuuri suddenly wondered whether Rienzi's last words in Wagner's opera had some historical basis and – if yes – maybe, just maybe one should consider tearing Rome down. It was just a little too fitting for his taste. Not that people not born to high offices and positions were unfit to rule or reign, but Yuuri suspected that those who actively tried to grab absolute power did, ultimately, not have the people's best interest in mind.

In any case the Tsar of Russia Alexander and Prussia's then and current king had allied themselves against Napoleon, probably not without help of the young, beautiful Prussian queen, as people all over Europe still mumbled, sometimes with admiration, with a romantic sigh or – more often – with a slight jeer in their voice.

Prussia and France still didn't get along too well and the Prussian king tended to expand this animosity to any French ally he could find. That much Yuuri had understood in his time here.

So a German monarchy would be almost inconceivable already on this account.

“If it was like in England, any King they'd decide on would have no real power, though, right?” Yuuri finally asked.

“No absolute power,” Andreas corrected. “I mean, try and tell the English queen she has no power. But they could only reign because the people let them.”

“No monarch in their right mind would agree to this, though,” Yuuri commented. “Not to mention all the monarchs that would have to give up their territories and privileges.”

“Well, if they don't get it on their own, they can always be made to get it,” Alexander shrugged. “Just because we weren't quite successful last time doesn't mean we won't be next time and if things go a bit better in other places...”

“Always so violent,” Andreas sighed.

“You started it,” Alexander retorted, “and you know damn well that violence is the only language they understand. I mean, even with the general failure, we still got the king to concede at least some points. If we had been more aggressive we would have gotten even more.”

Around them a few heads tilted.

Some of the patrons around them looked on in disapproval.

They quickly lowered their head.

“You know, your loud talk could get us all into jail,” Plisetsky grumbled. “Now imagine _those_ headlines.”

“It's true though, right?” Alexander grumbled. “They react best to violence. Or the threat of it. And if we want some change, some real change, then maybe we _should_ use the means that yield the best results. Might not even be necessary to constantly use actual violence, but plant the notion in their awareness, so they won't forget. They should know what we are willing to do, or they'll never take us seriously.”

“And what would you propose to plant that idea in their minds?” Thomas asked, rolling his eyes almost audibly.

Thankfully the bar wench took this moment to bring them their food and another round of beer.

Potato dishes had the almost magical ability to shut their round up completely and for long enough to become entirely inconspicuous again and a long while of happy, content chewing and swallowing passed by, interjected by some gulping down of beer.

Finally Alexander, now calmer and quieter thanks to the magic of the dish of potatoes and creamy cod in front of him, sighed. “To answer your question, dear brother mine – what are we?”

“Dirt poor? Undervalued? The working class of the entertainment world?” Thomas asked.

Yuuri heard Plisetsky cluck his tongue.

“You're distinctively upper class,” Thomas amended.

Plisetsky still didn't look too happy, probably due to the association with upper class.

“We are artists!” Alexander declared. “Musical artists, that's what we are! Music is what we do, music is the art we do best. And art is a great way to plant ideas, right?”

Yuuri shrugged.

“I mean, in theatre – in music, in literature, anywhere. Whenever people tell stories they give you their ideas about how the world works and how it should work, right?”

“Not using violence but showing that things the way they are now will eventually breed violence?” Plisetsky nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

“Yes, exactly what I mean!” Alexander exclaimed.

Yuuri was somewhat doubtful about that, but - as he thought - wisely kept his mouth shut.

Not that it helped.

“Yuuri?” Andreas piped up, “You're pretty quiet!”

Oh dear.

Yuuri sighed. “Not my place to say anything. I mean, do I look German to you?”

“Yes, but you live here,” Thomas said.

“So?” The day had been long and exhausting. Yuuri had fought with Viktor and now their relationship apparently was in limbo. Maybe that was why he was so curt, so short, so sharp. “Doesn't mean I have any clue what's going on with you all here. That would require having any damn idea how you got here in the first place, which I obviously don't have.”

“Ah, yes.” Andreas nodded. “Yes, of course.”

Thankfully, their conversation subjects then swiftly moved on to other areas of life and work.

The evening carried on and it was night before they finally drank their last beer, paid their bills and left the inn, bidding farewell to each other and parting ways.

“Fun group,” Plisetsky commented as he and Yuuri walked down the street. “I'm always surprised by how much you like them.”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, you're not political at all, and...” Plisetsky waved his hands and then quickly buried them in the pockets of his coat again, as cool, moist night air hit them. “They're nice, but... it's weird for someone like you being good friends with them.”

“I know.”

Their steps echoed through the streets.

“But – I don't quite get it, I mean you are friends with them and you know how they think and talk and still you are actively _not_ involving yourself with anything political.”

Yuuri shrugged. “It's kind of hard for me to be considered a German, right? Even though I live here, it's not my country, so I don't think I have any right involving myself with matters that are not my concern. I mean, if anything happens here I can just leave and start over somewhere else. It will be difficult no matter where I am.” He looked over to Plisetsky. “You are Russian, aren't you?”

Plisetsky shrugged. “And the sky is blue. So?”

“But you act and think and feel like any Saxonian revolutionary,” Yuuri continued.

A sight drizzle of rain was setting in, tiny droplets catching in their hair and landing on Yuuri's glasses.

“Are you surprised?” Plisetsky asked. “I've come here when I was ten. And unlike in Russia here I am considered an actual human being. I live here. I like this country and I feel at home here.”

Yuuri chuckled. “A Russian German then?”

Plisetsky nodded. Whenever they passed a street lamp the droplets in his hair sparkled up, making him look like a sprite from a more fantastic opera. “You can call it that, yes. I'm both. Can't help it. I lived ten years in Russia and it shows, I know, and I hope I can put that to good use here and really be at home here and...” He sighed in something that sounded almost like frustration. “And that sounds stupid. I need to explain it better.”

Yuuri shook his head. “It's not stupid at all.”

“What about you, though?” Plisetsky asked. “I mean, even if German politics are not important to you, Italy is a mess too, right? Don't you have an opinion about that?”

“If I had, nobody would want to hear it.” Admitting the truth hurt a little less than expected. “Most Italians would not consider me Italian. And when I look in the mirror, I find it rather hard to argue with them.”

“But you called yourself Italian in the past.”

“It's easier than to say _I was born in Japan and grew up in Italy, so I honestly have no clue what I am in regards to nationality_ ,” Yuuri answered. “Or do you always explain the fact that you were born a Russian serf but got whisked away to Saxony when you were a child?”

“Pft.”

“See.”

Plisetsky shook his head. “But – I mean – you don't consider yourself Italian because other people don't, what's up with that shit! That's your decision to make, not theirs!”

Their voices echoed along the street, only slightly muted by the drizzle and the fog that came with it.

Somewhere over their heads a window opened and a woman yelled in the most beautiful Dresden accent Yuuri had ever heard, “Ey, shaddid daun sehre, willla!”

Then the window slammed shut again.

Plisetsky shuddered, whether at the noise or at the woman's dialect was not clear to Yuuri.

He shrugged. “Well, you grow up with people telling you that you don't belong and are not one of them and at some point you'll start believing them. Kinda hard to shake that.”

“But...” Plisetsky shook his head, trying his hardest to wrap his mind around the concept Yuuri had just presented him with. “But... like... I mean... there's no place you call home? Where you want to stay? Or go back to?”

“Don't tell me you plan on staying in Dresden forever,” Yuuri commented.

“Hell, no! I mean, it's great and all, but I'll be damned if this is my ultimate engagement – you know what I mean. You never felt Milan was home?”

“Sometimes.” Yuuri shrugged. “I was at home in our house and sometimes in the street. And I missed the climate when I first arrived here. And I miss Celestino, to be honest. But if he didn't happen to still be in Milan there'd be no reason for me to ever consider going back. But it's hard to consider a place home when you've always been made feel unwelcome.”

Plisetsky shook his head.

“What?” Yuuri found himself reaching out and gently boxing Plisetsky in the shoulder. “Hey, Celestino paid only for me. A strong sense of self was not included in that.”

“What... oh.” Plisetsky's eyes grew wide. “Oh. Sorry.”

“It's alright. You didn't know.”

For a while only their steps fell onto the pavement.

“And Viktor?” Plisetsky finally asked, “does he know?”

“Yes.” All things considered, it made his possessiveness even worse. “Told him a while ago. As you said, being in bed gets you talking.”

“Urgh...” Plisetsky shuddered. “Urgh.” Another shudder. Then he collected himself. “Makes him just an even bigger idiot.”

Yuuri heartily agreed with that assessment. “True that,” he sighed, “but he is my idiot, at least if he still wants to be.”

“He does. I mean, he's not _that_ imbecile.” Plisetsky shrugged. “In the meantime – welcome to the family, I'll tell Yakov to officially acknowledge you as son-in-law.”

Yuuri had to laugh. “Oh, Celestino's gonna _love_ this. If he ever learns about it.” Now that was something he should have thought about a lot earlier. If he and Viktor showed up in Milan one day it would be certainly one way of informing him, but that was most definitely not the most sensible way to go about this.

Maybe he should write him again. It had been a while since his last letter anyway, so why not?

They walked in silence and finally, the street in which Plisetsky lived showed up. No meeting with his paramour this night.

“Do you at least know where you're going with your life?” Plisetsky asked.

Yuuri snorted. “What do I look like?”

“Urgh. Figures.” Plisetsky rolled his eyes. “You know, you should fix that and quickly.”

He was being lectured by a juvenile hedgehog in human form. Somehow Yuuri bristled a lot less at the notion than he would have thought. “Probably. Do _you_ know, though?”

At this Plisetsky laughed. “Hey, I'm seventeen, what do you think?!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like... really, please don't kill me.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amends are made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another chapter and - thanks for not killing me during the last few weeks.

Chapter 23  
  


_I am not sure if I have mentioned it before_ , Yuuri wrote a few days later in an already long letter back to Milan,  _but for a while now there is a person in my life who is very dear to me. If I am too vague for your liking, it is for the same reason I might not have told you about this person before. Truth is, I am not entirely sure you would approve. But since we might show up in Milan together at some point, I think I should inform you right away. I am with someone. You might not be happy about this person. This will not change the fact that I hold this person very close to my heart._

He had chosen his words carefully, never giving a hint whether the person in question was male or female, which had been a considerable feat considering how heavily gendered Italian was.

He had already written about how his life in Dresden was currently evolving and after some pondering and a line saying,  _The reasons I might consider leaving Dresden and return to Milan are rather political, I have to admit,_ he went on to describe how things were going right now before concluding with  _With lots of love, your Yuuriccino._

Maybe him using the old nickname would put Celestino in a nicer mood, make him more curious about this lover Yuuri was talking about than anything else.

If Yuuri still had a lover by the time this letter reached Milan. Viktor still hadn't deigned to talk to him or even show his face.

With a deep sigh he folded the letter and put it into the envelope, then he got up from the table on which he had both taken his breakfast and written the letter. Putting away his pen and his inkwell in a small note case he finished up the last bit of his tea.

He would drop off the letter later that day, maybe in his break between rehearsal and performance.

Before that he would be a good little opera singer and sing in the chorus. And then in the solo rehearsals.

And he was a good little opera singer and he did sing in the chorus. And then in the solo rehearsals.

And afterwards he wanted to walk out of the building to get himself a bite to eat and drop the letter off at the post office. But still, still, still he found himself on the way to the basement, simply because Viktor hadn't been up here today and because he missed him and needed him and wanted him so, so badly. Worst thing was, he didn't notice by himself.

“Oi, where're you going?”

He flinched at the whispered question and turned around.

Plisetsky stood behind him in the corridor, arms crossed, an eyebrow raised.

Yuuri looked around.

No, this was decidedly not the way to the post office. “Oh.” He could practically feel his face fall.

Plisetsky nodded. “Yeah, about sums it up.” He rolled his eyes. “You know how often this happened in the last three days?”

“More than I care for,” Yuuri admitted.

“Five times. I come here for breakfast, I find you. In breaks I have to catch you from going down and unless you're out with your group I can post myself at the door and catch you from going down.”

Yuuri winced.

“Which is annoying, because it sometimes collides with my plans.”

“Well,” he offered, rather weakly, he knew, “You don't have to do that?”

“I know I don't have to,” Plisetsky snorted, “but you know, I think I should. Keeping an eye on you when you are in a bad shape. And such. Like... friends stuff.”

Plisetsky was calling him his friend. Yuuri felt a twinge of amusement.

“In any case – you're not out with your group tonight, right?”

“Today would be lesson day,” Yuuri said.

“That's a no, right?”

Yuuri sighed and then nodded. God, this was pathetic. Were people always like this when their love life was dissolving? Yuuri prayed that yes, this was normal and – most of all – that it would pass.

Plisetsky scratched the back of his head. “Alright, last time I accompanied you, time to repay the favour.”

“What?”

“Hey, please don't expect me to completely neglect my own life in favour of yours, alright?”

“Never would dream of it.”

“Good, but since I also don't care for you being unsupervised and ending up doing something stupid– me and Otto pick you up after tonight's performance, got it?”

Yuuri swallowed. Another evening he wouldn't have to spend alone with his thoughts and the temptation to just say _Screw it_ and go down and see Viktor and act as if nothing had ever happened.

He nodded. “Alright. Thank you.”

“Eh. Don't.” Plisetsky shrugged. “Not sure whether you will enjoy it, it's rather...”

“Unruly? Wild? New-way-of-thinking-y? Prone to outbursts of revolutionary speak?” Yuuri chuckled. “Oh my, oh dear, oh, what a surprise.”

“Ha, ha.” But Plisetsky, too laughed. “Alright, see you then.”

“Yes, see you. Thanks.”  
  


The evening was pretty much what Yuuri had expected it to be.

Plisetsky came to pick him up after they all had changed back from their costumes into their regular clothes, they left the house and then met up with Otto Becker, who shook hands with Yuuri (firm grip, Yuuri noted, another thing to like about the man) and did the same with Plisetsky, although he held his hand a little longer than Yuuri's and ran a thumb over it.

They went to a small inn on the cheaper side of a stagehand's wallet; the smell of cheap beer and roasted, well-spiced mincemeat (probably of rather questionable quality, hence the heavy aroma of pepper and paprika mingled in) wafted through the street long before he could make out the sign of the pub through the October evening fog. Then again, this was no surprise. Most of the houses surrounding the Crowing Roast – which, as Yuuri would later find out, did not serve roast chicken, a true disappointment – were establishments of equal nature and questionable quality.

After the cool, foggy, beer-heavy evening air the hot atmosphere was almost suffocating Yuuri the moment they stepped through the door.

Plisetsky didn't seem to notice. “Ah, there.” He nodded towards a rather crowded corner. A few heads lifted. Nods were exchanged.

“Quite many today,” Plisetsky remarked, “and some faces we haven't seen in quite a while. It's almost like some time has passed since March and they are daring to poke out their heads again.”

“Some people might call that smart and survival instinct,” Otto gently admonished him.

“Yeah, but... still...”

“Dead people can't do much.”

Plisetsky sighed in defeat and they made their way through the house and to the table.

Yuuri already had a rather strong urge to run away. Too many people. Far too many people and too many funny looks at his face. Too many raised eyebrows. And suddenly he was also keenly aware of how – while mostly clean and good condition - plain, sometimes even coarse the clothes of some of the other patrons were. His new, fine jacket stood out. So did his neat, clean, pressed trousers. So would his dark grey waistcoat and his pristine shirt. Yuuri had always liked decent vestments, but in this environment he just as well could have worn Viktor’s beloved, striped pirate trousers.

He smiled nervously, forcing himself to look ahead, and when Plisetsky introduced him (“Katsuki. Singer. Kinda fine guy.”) he managed to nod in a fashion he hoped that was friendly.

And room was made for all three of them.

Yuuri sat down. He ordered a beer along with the others (and prayed the taste wouldn't instantly kill him), some food (praying that this wouldn't instantly kill him) and then pretty much listened.

It was evidently a gathering of people who had been involved or wished they had been involved in the March uprising, some of them democrats who wanted to be rid of any form of monarchy, some leaning to a generally more nationalist side.

“So what if there's a king?!” one of the latter presently hissed, voice sharp and hushed and pressed, “first step to anything, _anything_ _,_ would be unity, even if it's under an emperor or king or Prince Elector or whatever!”

“Yeah, and then we have to deal with that one ruler and probably still a ton of nobles who think themselves better than us and think they can say who we are and how to think, no, we need to get rid of them first before there can be one Germany!” another barked back before taking a deep sip of his beer.

“And how would you get rid of them?” Number one asked.

“Most effective way of all. Burn them. Burn them to the ground.”

Yuuri shuddered as he heard it, but – maybe that was one way to deal with the issue. One of many, at least. Only one. 

“If you do that you probably will end up considered a bad guy,” Plisetsky commented.

“Yeah, well, then it's because those in power always like to see themselves as the good guys, even when they're not!”, the man – more of a boy, really – shot back. He didn't look much older than Plisetsky, maybe he even was his age? Who could tell?

“Well, if they see themselves as the good guys, maybe they need to be shown the effects of their actions and of the system!” Plisetsky argued. “Some might get it and try to change stuff!”

“Then they'll only better conditions and soften effects, but never will change the system.”

“And what if some of the effects of their actions would be violence against them? Even those who don't consider themselves the good guys and don't feel a moral obligation are afraid of losing their wealth, their life, their family.”

“Ha! So you are of my mind!”

Yuuri watched the exchange with as much rapt attention as the other people around them.

“No, I am not,” Plisetsky declared, annoyed but still remarkably calm, “All I am saying is that they should know the harvest they'll reap with their actions, that's it and to show them before it comes to it, I mean, they're nobles, not utterly stupid-”

“Sure?”

“As far as I know they don't consider themselves monkeys!” Plisetsky was raising his voice a little. “So – I do think, it takes drastic measures to get any sort of justice done, yes, I just don’t think we need to necessarily execute those measures.”

The other man raised an eyebrow. “You know, Yuri, you can stop the fancy talk, we know that you grew up wealthy.”

Oh. Yes. Right. Yuuri took a quick glance at Plisetsky and at his clothes. He was just as well dressed as Yuuri himself. He stuck out just as much.

Also he was a bit pale.

“That's something we need to democratise,” Otto said, “education. I mean, I got into some art classes and learned stuff through them – I had to learn stuff for them, mainly stuff others already knew – but your purse shouldn't decide whether you get to read many books or go to a lecture at the university and someday get a degree and then a good job, right?”

Plisetsky nodded. “I know I am lucky regarding my education.”

“Yeah, then don't rub it into others faces.”

Plisetsky bit his lip. “Can't and shan't. Just because I know I am a bit luckier doesn't mean I have to dumb myself down. If you wanna force other people to act different from who they actually are, then maybe your idea of a new society is pretty full of shit, I'd say.”

“You...”

“Easy, easy. If you want to fight, not indoors,” Otto said.

Plisetsky took a deep breath. “What I wanna say all the time – if you don't necessarily care for killing them, but need to do  _something_ – maybe just give them an idea. Demonstrate it to them what can happen. What already happens. And what  _will_ happen to them if they don't learn some reason.”

“Yeah and how would you do that?” the other man asked, almost with a sneer in his voice. “As if any of them would listen when you talk.”

Them. Them, them, them, always them. So far, Yuuri had never even heard a name being uttered. Always them. Always something other. Always something strange. Always something apart.

Plisetsky sighed. “You know, showing and telling are not the same thing. Showing means to give a person a story they can follow and latch onto and understand.”

Funny, Yuuri noticed. That guy was right. Plisetsky  _was_ speaking in a rather polished fashion, now even more than before. Maybe he had prepared that little speech in his head. In any case, he amusingly seemed to have forgotten his potty mouth at the theatre.

“ Once they feel with the story you can reach out to them. And either they will be outraged at the injustice happening – maybe even enough that they act against it as much as they can – or they are starting to worry what might happen to them. Repeat this for a while – maybe a longer while – and you'll get an actual change.”

And he also had also paid very close attention to what Alexander had said a few evenings before and evidently he had spent quite some time mulling over it.

Otto was looking at him with a smile kept firmly in only his eyes and Yuuri could see by the movement of his shoulder and his arm that under the table he was holding Plisetsky's hand.

“Pfft,” one – another rather young man – commented, “works only with people who actually have their brains together a bit. Inbred, degenerate ass-buggers, that's all they are.”

The movement of both Otto's and Plisetsky's shoulders suggested that they had loosened their grip on each other's hands and were now sitting apart again.

Yuuri couldn't help but feel for and with them.

“Maybe too much weird blood in them, too,” another one added, “I mean, both inbred _and_ not even remotely German in their ancestry. What would you expect?”

“Just another reason to get rid of them.”

“You don't seem to be too fond of anything strange here?” This was out before Yuuri could have stopped it.

“Well...” One of the men looked up and down on him. “You seem kind of alright. I guess. I mean, I don't know you, but Yuri and Otto are alright, so you can't be too bad. I guess.” 

“Oh my, thank you,” Yuuri drawled, pulling out his Milanese accent just for this. 

“No need to.” Apparently, the accent had been a mistake. It had clouded over the sarcasm he had intended to put in his voice. Yuuri made a mental note to not do it again.

“But, you know,” the man continued, “it's better we stick with our own folks. You and a German woman, that won't work out. I mean, you and German men as friends would be hard. Too different. You are alright, again, but just – too different. You wouldn't even be able to think like us.”

Yuuri wanted to vomit.

“Would be interesting, though.” Another man leaned in closer, pushing up his glasses closer to his eyes. He stared at Yuuri, as if inspecting him.

Yuuri suppressed the urge to wince.

“Could Germans and – what are you again? Chinese? Siamese?”

Now the urge Yuuri was suppressing was the one to punch the person in front of him. “I was born in Japan and last time I checked referring to a person as a  _what_ is rather poor manners.”

Alas, he was kindly ignored.

“Alright, can Germans and Japanese people even reproduce?”

“Suppose, I mean, some English folks have a Japanese mistress.”

“Nobles?”

“What else?”

There was a general sigh going around the table that put Yuuri in even more discomfort.

“Well, do they have kids with their pets?”

The man with the glasses shrugged. “Not as far as I know. I think it is possible, though, I mean, mules exist too, right? The only question would be whether this offspring would be fertile.”

Yuuri finished his beer, took a breath or two and then got up, pointedly leaving his jacket behind.

Stepping outside was a relief, even though the air smelled just as much of beer as it had inside.

Yuuri took yet another deep breath. No place for him here. Well, not that he ever had wanted to have a permanent place in Germany, but the notion still stung, digging its claws into his skin like an angry cat he wouldn't stop bothering.

Without doubt, many people in Italy would express the same ideas when asked. Undoubtedly, Yuuri was not considered a fit match for any self-respecting, well-bred Italian girl, not that he had any interest in self-respecting, well-bred Italian girls.

But still. But still. But still.

A gust of wind swept over the street and carried the scent of smoked fish with it. It reminded Yuuri that he had barely touched the schnitzel with mushroom sauce he had ordered for dinner. It hadn't looked all that appetizing to him, but now he direly regretted this decision.

Next to him the door creaked and then, after a brief cloud of noisiness, closed again with a soft  _clack,_ leaving him and the newcomer in blissful semi-silence again.

Yuuri watched a carriage rolling down the street before turning his gaze.

It was Otto, standing there, holding two small jugs of beer in his hands.

Silently he offered one to Yuuri.

Yuuri took it and drank. He probably would get tipsy soon, but that only would help to make this somewhat bearable, so it was all fine.

“Careful,” Otto said.

To this Yuuri only shrugged. “If I'm drunk, I trust you and Plisetsky to deliver me to my boarding house.”

“We'll do.” Otto sighed. “In any case, this is as good a chance as any.”

“Hm, hm, I agree,” Yuuri mumbled and took another, albeit much smaller sip. “Wonder for what, though.”

“Talk. We didn't have the pleasure yet.”

“Wasn't aware it's a pleasure to talk to me,” Yuuri grumbled, “or that talking to me is in any way a requirement for anything.”

Otto shrugged. “Well, we don't need to talk if you don't want to, it's all the same to me, but I figured you shouldn't be left outside alone.”

“What? Too dangerous to leave the bad, bad Asian to his own devices?” Damn. Yuuri bit his lips. “Sorry. Didn't mean that.”

“You'd mean it with anyone else from that table.” Otto's hands twitched, as if he was fidgeting with something that wasn't there. “Can't blame you. No. Figured you'd prefer some company to being left alone with your thoughts.”

“Ah.” Yuuri nodded. “Even if I'd prefer silent company?”

“Even then.”

“Don't you think you should keep an eye on our dear little firecracker in there?”

Otto Becker chuckled. “I think I can leave him alone for five minutes without tearing down the building. He's smarter than he looks. And he's handing out dressing downs like there's no tomorrow right now. He is better at these than I am, so I figured I'd just leave him to it.”

Yuuri nodded.

“Silent company then?”

“Much appreciated,” he answered. And after he and Otto Becker had taken a few moments to try and fail settling into a comfortable, companionable silence, Yuuri gave up and sighed, “But if you want to talk, by all means, do so. I have a few things to say, actually.”

“Oh?” Otto Becker turned his head towards Yuuri and lifted an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Yes.” Yuuri nodded quickly and downed another sip of his beer. “Thank you for... for being with... with him.” He nodded to the door behind which, presumably, Plisetsky was wreaking havoc.

Otto Becker made a face. Or maybe he just looked on with his regular, neutral expression, it wasn't much of a difference. “Don't make it sound like a chore.”

“Didn't mean to, I just...” Yuuri shrugged. The beer was already starting to fog his brain. “I just mean that you're really good for him. He's a good sort on his own, but you draw it out a bit more. I guess. I mean, I know him for maybe half a year, that's not much time to know someone.” (And still, it was enough time for him to have fallen in love with Viktor, planning a life with him and having grown so close to him that he now felt the rift like a torn-off finger.)

“But you know, he's very important to someone who's in turn very important to me, so I'd care for him one way or another. Sounds bad, right?”

Otto Becker shrugged. “Sounds like you're a responsible adult who prefers to see his loved ones and by extension their loved ones in good health and happy.”c

Yuuri nodded. “Yes, yes. Yes.” And then he cleared his throat. “Anyways. You are good for him. You seem to keep him grounded a bit.”

To this Otto chuckled. “Really? I always thought Yuri was doing that himself.” He took a deep breath and then, finally, a sip from his beer as well. And of course his face remained a stoic, stony mask. “So.”

“So?” Yuuri repeated.

“So. I'm waiting.”

What? “Waiting? For what?”

“You said he's important to both you and someone you hold very dear. I am expecting a speech about how I better not harm him or I will live to regret it.”

Yuuri snorted out a laughter, the first honest one today. His throat felt sore from it. “You know, if I dare doing that and he finds out, it's not you who'll live to regret this.”

“So no vaguely threatening talk?”

“Why should I? You are a decent fellow and wouldn't harm him anyways, because harming people is a shitty thing to do.”

“Thanks for the compliment?”

“Welcome.” Yuuri noticed that his beer was almost empty. Too bad, even if he didn't really like the taste. But the fogginess in his head had been nice. “Besides, it's nice. Seeing him in a mood that's not all grumpy and prickly and hard and rough.”

“I think I haven't seen him grumpy and rough in a long time,” Otto said.

“Urgh.” Yuuri didn't know whether he wanted to scrub Otto's brain with some good old carbolic soap or rather his own. Someone’s brain, though, needed a thorough scrubbing, that much was obvious. Maybe a rinse with beer would suffice though.

“So,” Otto Becker said again, “I have your approval then?”

“Not that I'm in any position to give it, but for what it's worth – yes, you have.”

Plisetsky had a really good timing, because it was this precise moment that he opened the door, shouting, “Alright, time to leave, I suppose, the company has turned foul!” He was wearing his own jacket, having Yuuri's and Otto's thrown over his arm. Also he was carrying three more beer jugs in his hands.

The timing was too perfect and the look he exchanged with Otto was too pointed, but Yuuri decided to not point out that eavesdropping was poor manners. Why would he?

Plisetsky let Otto Becker hold the beers and handed Yuuri his jacket.

Somehow they all got dressed and supplied with a drink for their way home.

They were silent, taking sips of their beer and clearing their heads from the alcohol-induced fog with each step they were taking.

Otto Becker and Plisetsky were walking close together, sometimes – Yuuri could see it when he was behind them – their hands brushed against one another and sometimes stayed together for quite a while.

Plisetsky was smiling.

Yuuri had seen his gentler side a lot more recently, no doubt one of the effects the other man had on him, but undoubtedly it had been always there and it had always been quite strong, despite the initial harsh impression the boy usually left. Or maybe because of it. If one was hard to the world he could protect any softness he had and reserve it for people who wouldn't take advantage of it.

It was a good feeling that Yuuri was one of the people who got to see it.

Also, the alcohol made him weepy and maybe needy and rather jealous of the fact that they were walking home together after they had accompanied Yuuri to the boarding house.

Also he missed Viktor. Also he was so starved for touch, also he was alone and also he was just a little drunk.

He somehow got in – the doorman looked at him rather disapprovingly – and then upstairs, firmly to the men's rooms.

He even managed to be somewhat quiet as he undressed and slipped under the blanket.

And to keep quiet he bit into his pillow and wrapped himself into his blanket as he ran his hands over himself, trying his hardest to imagine they were Viktor's.

He failed; they were not Viktor's they were too small, the fingers too short, but the touch was still at least somewhat good, at least somewhat satisfying, at least somewhat what he needed. At least he could get some release that was only partly tears.

And at least he was too quiet to disturb anyone.

But the wetness in his bed was not pleasant to sleep in.

 

Rehearsals went on as usual two days later, but afterwards Mr. Wagner called, “Yuri – no, not you – Plisetsky! Yuri Plisetsky, could I please have a word, my boy?”

Plisetsky, of course, came to him.

Mr. Wagner talked, Yuuri could see, he talked in a quiet voice and with the help of his hands, as he was prone to do when trying to press his point.

Plisetsky listened. He listened with great attention.

And he nodded.

And his shoulders fell.

Finally he turned around, bid Mr. Wagner good-bye and then walked away.

“What's the matter?” Yuuri asked.

Plisetsky didn't even look up to him. “Nothing. Really, nothing, just... some advice from Mr. Wagner.”

“Doesn't look like it's good advice.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Dunno, I...” Plisetsky sighed. “You're engaged for lunch, right?” He was so pale.

Yuuri saw his bottom lip wobble. “Yes, but I still got time, Phichit'll be here in maybe half an hour, so...”

Plisetsky shook his head. “No, no, that's alright. Sponsors are important and... I guess I'll just go down to Viktor.”

“Maybe you should?”

“Yes,” Plisetsky said, very firmly, swallowing, “yes, I should. Misery loves company and all. And right now Viktor is the most miserable person I can think of. You aside.”

“And you?”

Plisetsky only managed a dry laugh before leaving.

The laugh followed Yuuri as he dressed and got out, and it followed him as he had lunch with Phichit. It even followed him as Phichit  asked over their desserts,  “Since you're  free today, maybe we can take the chance for me to finally get your portrait?”

Yuuri nodded slowly. “Uh... Yes. Yes, sure.”

“Great!” Smiling, Phichit finished off his slice of cake and – after urging Yuuri to do the same, it was delicious, really – paid.

They left the inn for a small, sunny spot on the riverbanks, chatting only occasionally about the theatre, Phichit's business and how they hoped the weather would be tomorrow.

When they sat down, Phichit immediately took out a sketchbook and a piece of reddish-brown chalk and started working on Yuuri as he looked over the river.

In a few weeks it would be winter. Cold, northern winds would blow over the plains, biting into the cheeks and noses of everyone foolish enough to go outside insufficiently covered and people would complain, but they would also take delight in their warm, cozy homes (so they possessed these) and enjoy a mug of hot, spiced wine, either in their homes or on the Striezlmarkt that would set up shop on the Old Market Square. Johannes and Andreas had described it to him in the most vivid colours, the many wonderful things one could get there, wooden toys for children, lovely textiles and handicraft tools in delightfully carved, inlaid and painted little boxes for the women and the food – oh, the food. Sausages, hot soups, candied apples, caramelised almonds and hazelnuts, gingerbread, Stollen all beckoning visitors to try them with their scent and either of them accompanied by a mug of hot, sweet wine, heavy with cloves and vanilla, warm with cinnamon and ginger and airy on the tongue with anise star seed, fruity with orange and lemon and coursing through one's veins.

It sounded a good deal different from the Italian Christmas Yuuri was familiar with and just the more delightful for it.

He had already extorted promises from Andreas, Alexander and Thomas to accompany him there at least once, just before Mila and Sara had joined in the discussion and declared they would go there as well, of course not without dragging poor Plisetsky with them, much to his protest.

Still, Yuuri would probably also go alone on occasion. And then pretend Viktor was with him. Or not pretend, but very, very, very much wish it was so.

Which of course now still didn't look like it would become even a remote possibility anytime soon.

Yuuri heard Phichit cluck his tongue. “Oh dear, that's not a happy face.”

“No surprise here, I'm not exactly what one would call happy,” he admitted.

“Huh – no, no, hold still, don't move, I think I can work with this!”

Obediently Yuuri held still, looking over the Elbe, watching the occasional couple taking a romantic stroll.

Wind arose and started to play with his hair, lifting strands, blowing them into his eyes that he had to blink and then blowing them out of his face.

Thank goodness for the glasses or he wouldn't have been able to look straight ahead.

“Your lover is still jealous then, I take it?” Phichit asked.

“Yes.” That came out a lot more whinier than Yuuri would have liked. 

“Sorry to hear that.”

Strangely enough Yuuri believed him.

“If you need to – how do they say in German – pour out your heart – I will gladly listen.”

“It's stupid,” Yuuri blurted out. “I know it's stupid, he knows it's stupid! He once said himself. Jealousy is based in a lack of trust in either your partner or yourself.”

“He trusted you before?”

“Of course.” Yuuri hinted at a nod. “At least I think. I have no reason to think he didn't trust me before.”

“And he was confident in his qualities as your lover?”

Yuuri felt heat creep up his neck and into his cheeks. “Oh  _yes_ . If he's anything then it's confident in himself.” He sighed. “So, something changed.”

“Aside of the fact that you receive regular payments from someone who confessed to harbour a strong affection for you?” Phichit asked and Yuuri's face grew ever redder.

He managed to wheeze out a slightly nervous, “If you say so...”

“I do,” Phichit said, and through the wind Yuuri could hear him move the chalk over his paper. “I don't think this will change too soon, too. It is quite hard to dislike you, even after the initial infatuation has faded.”

Infatuation had faded? Oh, thank goodness.

“Anyways, are you really sure that this is not a part of the reason for your lover's sudden jealousy?”

Yuuri pondered it for a moment. “No, I really don't think so. It had never been a problem before and then all of a sudden... why now?”

“Well, since I am not your lover, I cannot possibly give you the answer,” Phichit said, “If you want one, you should ask him.”

Yuuri sighed in defeat. “Yes, probably,” he mumbled.

“And smile, please, will you?”

And so Yuuri smiled.

 

He was on stage the next evening and he would probably not do too badly. He wouldn't miss any of his few lines, he would hit all the notes and he would miss Viktor so badly that it could choke him whenever his mouth closed. But when he was singing, he would be fine. 

He was fine.

Plisetsky, on the other hand, wasn't fine. Just like yesterday after Mr. Wagner's talk he was pale, but when he saw Yuuri, his face darkened considerably. “Urgh,” he muttered, “urgh,  _you_ !”

What?

Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “Care to explain what kind of offence I gave to you  _now_ ?”

“None!” Plisetsky hissed, “not you!” And then he turned around and stomped off towards the stage and Yuuri, now utterly confused, followed him.

Performance went well, as well as it could, at least. He didn't miss any of his few lines, he hit all the notes and he missed Viktor so badly that it choked him whenever his mouth closed. 

He was somewhat fine, albeit not as fine as he would have liked to be.

The door to Plisetsky's dressing room was now slightly open and Yuuri could catch a glimpse of the boy holding a small bouquet of flowers. Yuuri could smell the lavender that formed the outer ring of the arrangement. A moment later he got a whiff of peppermint. Whoever had sent this seemed to be awfully concerned for Plisetsky's mental health.

Plisetsky however, stared at the bouquet as if he was about to burst into tears.

Then Yuuri spotted the squills that peeked through the lavender. Squills he understood. Squills meant begging for forgiveness for a mistake.

Huh.

Plisetsky looked up from the bouquet the moment Yuuri wanted to move on and, eyes stormy, walked to the door and slammed it shut into Yuuri's face.

Yuuri shook his head. Sometimes he thought he was getting an idea of the boy and how to deal with him.

And sometimes things like this happened.

With a sigh he went on  ~~ a ~~ to his own dressing room.

The moment he opened the door a flood of scent washed over him and the moment he put light to the lamps colours flooded his senses, petals, leaves, flowers befitting the star singer of the house in the dressing room of an extra.

The small shelf, his vanity, a good chunk of the floor, everywhere stood vases filled with red roses and tulips, garnished with blackberry leaves, there were squills and peppermint, the same he had spotted Plisetsky receiving.

Africana intermingled with it. Some evergreen was tied around most of these bouquets and everywhere there were irises entwined and Yuuri's head was spinning; somehow even the rather dim lights of the room made his eyes burn...

He sat down on his vanity, next to a vase with gerania; tucked between the flowers was a rolled up piece of paper, tied together with a string. Next to it an envelope with Yuuri’s name, written in Phichit' orderly, stiff hand.

Carefully he opened it.

_My dear Yuuri, the flowers are for you, of course. I am very positive I am not the only one subscribing to their meaning when it comes to you. I thus included a present for someone of my mind._

Phichit, Yuuri found not for the first time, was too good for this world.

He looked in the mirror. Phichit was right; asking was the only way he would get an answer.

“Thanks for the flowers,” he said without turning around, “they are...” What would bear proper description? “... quite overwhelming.”

For a moment there was silence. “That does not sound like you like them,” Viktor finally said.

“I do.” Yuuri ran a finger over one tulip petal. “They are wonderful, I just... I didn't expect them.” He still didn't turn around. “How did you get them all in here?”

Now, finally, Viktor came out from his shadowy hide-out. “I asked Yura to place the order for me. Probably under a fake name, too.”

Yuuri let go of the tulip now. “That would explain the return of his loathing for me.”

Viktor didn't answer.

And Yuuri didn't say anything more for now.

And the silence crept on and on.

Finally Viktor made a step towards him, rather insecurely so, stopping right away again.

His hair was combed and tied back, but it seemed to lack the usual luster Yuuri usually admired so much.

Also he was wearing both a proper shirt and a pair of black trousers.

Yuuri swallowed. His hands were starting to shake and without thinking he grabbed the next best things to hold and fidget with. It turned out to be his face rag and the bottle of lotion and so he opened it – his fingers were shaking and they were stiff at the same time, why was that? – and then dabbed some lotion on his brow, cheeks, chin and nose.

Viktor came closer again.

He was haggard and pale, with deep shadows under his eyes.

“You got a present,” Yuuri said, sharper than he had actually wanted and reached for the rolled up paper, holding it up behind his back.

Damn it, his hand was trembling as Viktor took it. Quickly he lowered it and grabbed the rag again while Viktor – fingers trembling just as much as his, at the very least – unrolled it.

It was a picture he could see in his mirror; Viktor, either by accident or by design held it so Yuuri could recognize every detail. Considering it was from Phichit it probably wasn't surprising. Neither was the fact that the subject matter was Yuuri's face in close-up. The tenderness of the watercolours over the red chalk however was, just as the wistful, almost longing expression Phichit had captured.

“That is a nice picture,” Viktor commented, almost casually. “Your sponsor has talent.”

“I know.” Yuuri's throat tightened. “And thankfully he is quite aware of it, no need to reassure him about the truth.”

“I see.” Viktor swallowed. He studied the picture a little more, probably to avoid looking at the real person in front of him and Yuuri looked at his hand that tightened and loosened around the rag and tightened and loosened and tightened and loosened.

Then Viktor, very softly said “Oh,” and he looked up again.

“What is it?”

“The title,” Viktor said. “It has a title.”

“Oh,” Yuuri said, “Oh. I... I didn't know that.” After another moment he asked, “What is its title?”

Viktor looked at him, then back at the picture, then back to the Yuuri in and in front of the mirror. “When he thinks of you.”

Yes, Phichit most definitely was too good for this world.

“Well...” Viktor sighed. “I suppose he could not be clearer in his message.”

“I suppose not,” Yuuri said, grabbing the rag again.

“That is, if it still holds true?”

Now Yuuri started rubbing the rag over his face.

It had the added bonus – aside from keeping his hands busy – that he could at least partially hide his face behind the rag.

Viktor was now standing behind him, directly behind his chair, Yuuri could feel the warmth radiating from him.

But he wasn't touching him. He wasn't even lifting a hand.

Yuuri was done now with his left cheek and moved on his chin.

And through the mirror he watched Viktor. And waited. And waited. And waited.

At last, Viktor cleared his throat and said, “I am... I am sorry.”

Yuuri inspected his chin and rubbed over a corner around his mouth where he had missed some of the paint.

“I should not have acted like that. Not towards you and...” Again he cleared his throat. Yuuri wanted to berate him to not unnecessarily stress out his vocal cords. “And not for this reason.”

“And what was the reason?” Yuuri asked, lowering the rag. All of a sudden his hands didn't want to move anymore at all. “Do you trust me so little?” Strange how even his voice was. How cool. Almost as if he was unimpressed.

“Yes. No!” Viktor shook his head. “I do trust you. That is not it.”

Viktor had a very weird way of showing his trust, indeed, Yuuri thought, but decided to keep his mouth shut about it for now. No reason to shoot Viktor down before he had even properly started.

“I was – scared is not the right word, I think, maybe panicked. Panicking. Not was. I still am, I...” He took a deep breath. “I am always down there. Neither can I get you nice things, nor take you out nor do _anything_ with you. Aside of music and sex. And maybe reading.”

Yuuri let the words sink in for a moment before he found words. “Incredible,” he then said. His voice was still so even, so calm, it was scaring him. Even scarier was that there was now an edge to his voice, sharp and jagged like broken glass and he had neither the means nor the actual intention to stop it. “Apparently I act like the cheapest catamite around for you to think of me like that.”

“What?! No, I would never!” Viktor's one eye widened in honest dismay. That was at least something, Yuuri supposed. It did nothing to suffuse his anger, though.

“Sure about that? The way you say it doesvsound quite like my affection can be bought with shiny trinkets, food and some entertainment.”

“Well,” Viktor offered weakly, “at least food always worked on me.”

Neither the joke nor the reminder of Yuuri's dinner-bringing habits were lost on him. It didn't calm him down, though.

“But – no. I do not think you are a prostitute. Or that you act like one.”

Yuuri's hands were still holding the rag. How fortunate. He needed so direly to do something to relieve himself, to let out the angry energy that had built up in him, to... He threw the damn thing on his vanity. In all honesty, it didn't look all that impressive, but it helped a little. “Then what do you  _want_ to say with that?!”

Viktor flinched and immediately Yuuri regretted his outburst. He took a breath and calmer and – miracle of miracle – without the sharp, jagged edges in his voice – he continued, “Tell me.”

“I fear the problem is with me. I have very little to offer you. And then along comes someone who can and whom you like and who would be beyond happy to win your heart.” Viktor took a breath. “I... sorry. I cannot help but...” He faltered again. “In the end, with him you see what you are missing out on when you remain with me.”

So he did think him cheap. Yuuri opened his mouth.

“I do not mean that one can buy his way to you. But what you are missing out on – it is life. It is spending time together. And it is building a life together. That is it. That is what you could have with anyone else who does not squat under the theatre. That is what you will want someday. Or you want it already.”

“We already _were_ planning on a life, as far as I remember,” Yuuri pointed out. “You want that too.”

“I do. And I want it with you.”

Through the mirror their eyes met.

“Me too,” Yuuri said.

“And right now I cannot give this to you.”

“We...”

“You were already planning for a life in Milan with me,” Viktor sighed. “But for someone who has supposedly killed himself it is rather impossible to be travelling around.”

Yuuri had not thought about that. “I would have figured something out.”

Viktor smiled sadly. “It is rather troublesome, dear. If you find someone with whom it would be easier to build a life and would want to build a life with that person, I could understand. I could understand you would leave then. But...” He took a deep breath and released it in a ragged, hot stream of air. “But that does not mean that the prospect of losing you does not scar e me to hell and back here.”

Again their eyes met.

Viktor bit on his lip; his eye was swimming. He would start to cry in a moment and Yuuri wanted to get up, wrap his arms around him and hold him and tell him that it was alright, that it was fine, that...

It wasn't fine just like that.

“And I know that none of this excuses anything, none of my words or my actions or my silence the last few days-”

It knocked.

They both flinched and looked to the door.

All of a sudden the tension was broken and Yuuri looked around. “Your corner. Quick.”

Viktor nodded and quickly walked over.

There was another knock now.

“Yuuri? Are you alright, my boy?”

Mr. Wagner? What the hell did he want?

“I'm coming!” Yuuri looked over his shoulder to make sure Viktor was hidden and then, taking a deep breath, he opened the door. “Mr. Wagner, that is quite a surprise.”

The man smiled at him. “Oh my, not an inconvenient one, I hope?”

Yuuri forced himself to smile back at him. “Not at all. Just a surprise.”

“Good.” Mr. Wagner nodded. “Well, my boy, I won't stay long, really, I just wanted to check up and make sure that everything is really alright with you?”

Yuuri wondered who this man was and what dark magic he had used to abduct the real Richard Wagner and assume his identity. “Uh. Yes.” He looked the man up and down. Nothing suspicious there. “Yes, I feel very fine, just exhausted after this long day, but – are you asking because my performance tonight was insufficient?”

Now Mr. Wagner – still smiling, how disconcerting – shook his head. “Oh no, no, not at all, my boy.”

Yuuri really wished he would stop calling him that. 

“Quite the opposite, I am quite impressed. You took my criticism to heart and promised to improve and not let your feelings and your personal life interfere with your work again. And lo and behold, you kept your word. You pulled yourself together rather admirably. I take it your love troubles found an easy solution then?”

Yuuri shook his head. “Not at all, I fear. The problem was with me for the entirety of the last week.” He now gave his smile a rather sweet edge, as if offering someone rotten candy. “But you were right to cut me down a notch. My work is the only thing that matters when I am in the house. So I put my troubles aside for the time being and was miserable in my free time to my heart's content. And...” He chuckled a bit nervously. “Since I had no chance to say it before, I owe you many thanks. I needed your harsh words to pull myself together again.” It wasn't even a lie. He had needed that wakeup call and he was – albeit begrudgingly – very grateful to Richard Wagner for providing it. 

That didn't mean Yuuri wasn't allowed to enjoy his face.

“Well...” Mr. Wagner needed a while to scrape his chin back off from the floor, along with his countenance. “Well, I am glad to hear that, of course. And I am glad to see you in good shape, just – you took so long now in your dressing room. Most others have already left.”

Was that so?

Yuuri peered out and on the corridor.

“Oh dear,” he then sighed. “That's what I mean with being miserable in my free time. I entirely forgot the time over my brooding.”

“Is that so. You seem to spend an awfully lot of time in the theatre. Most of the time you are the first to show up and the last to leave – and I admire and value your dedication to the work, my boy, I really do.”

Could he  _please_ stop calling him that?!

“But considering that you exhibited this behaviour even before you were so – well, troubled, I do have to ask if really everything is alright with you? I would really like to talk about that with you, if you don't mind. Just to make sure.”

Yuuri felt a trickle of sweat running down his neck. No choice. “Of course. Please.” He took a step away from the door. “Please, come in.”

Mr. Wagner, indeed, did come in.

“So, as I said -”

“Yes, I know. Mr. Feltsman, too, occasionally admonished me for showing up at such odd hours. I think his words were actually _Sleep. No sleep, no good, go home, sleep_ on one occasion.”

“Yes, he takes good care of the chorus. Good care.” Mr. Wagner nodded and smiled. “What a shame you cannot listen to him.”

“It helps me. I like finding myself an empty room and practise all by myself here before anybody else comes here to be disturbed by me.”

“By yourself?” Mr. Wagner repeated.

“Well, of course.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Mr. Feltsman did mention your strong work ethics to me. He didn't lie, who would have thought.” Yuuri decided to ignore the barb, instead focussing on Mr. Wagner's face.

Now it was his smile that turned threateningly sweet. “People who work hard will of course always have a chance to find a place here.”

“I thank you.”

“No need to. I am sure your admirers would be very happy to hear that?”

Yuuri nodded. “I am sure of it.”

He looked around, taking in the amount of flowers that were surrounding them. “My goodness, quite a few you seem to have and all so eager. Sending you so many flowers. One could almost think they mistook you for a woman. Of course, if they did, they should be forgiven, it is a bit hard to tell with foreign people.”

Yuuri chuckled. “Rest assured, Mr. Wagner, neither of my acquaintances in any area of my life has any doubts about my masculinity, no matter how little of it seems to exist.”

Mr. Wagner nodded. “In that case, I take Mr. Chula was  _very_ pleased with you.”

Yuuri blinked up to him with as wide and clueless eyes as possible. “Well, yes, he is always happy about my development, as well as the fact that I actually do get the chance to develop as a singer and to further my career here. But these flowers are not from him. It's a more personal bequeathment.”

“Oh.” Mr. Wagner's face twitched and finally settled back into a smile. “May I ask by whom?”

Now Yuuri could genuinely and actually smile. “My lover. An apology of sorts. I am inclined to accept.”

Mr. Wagner raised an eyebrow. “Your lover must be a rather remarkable young woman to send you so many flowers to apologize.”

Yuuri only shrugged. “Nothing about my life has ever been normal. Why should this change with the person I would like to spend my life with? I am just glad that we got through this, as you noticed, our fallout had a rather nasty effect on me.”

“You know my opinion about this – your attention belongs to the stage and to singing and-”

“My attention is always undivided where it belongs and when it belongs,” Yuuri said.

“As we have seen, but I also have seen very different things happen.” Mr. Wagner sighed. “Most talented sopranos who decide to leave the stage when they get married, sometimes before any such promises are made and then, when they are left all alone and in desolation have their ways and means to return cut off by life and circumstance...” He cleared his throat. “And even you needed to be snapped out of your dark mood. It is just no good.”

Yuuri shrugged. “In that case, maybe you should offer Mr. Erhardt your advice and your help in order for him to obtain a divorce.”

Mr. Wagner's eyes widened. “Oh no, no, not at all!”

“Surely his marriage affects his stage presence and his focus on his work,” Yuuri continued.

“Maybe sometime in the past, but by now he is old enough to...” Again Mr. Wagner cleared his throat. “In any case, someone so young and so easily influenced should steer clear of such things until they are firm enough to know where their priorities are to lie.” And now he sighed.

Yuuri had to admit, as an actor he was not half bad. “I cannot say how disappointed I am with young Yuri – Plisetsky, the one.”

“The one and only,” Yuuri said.

“I had so high hopes for him. Such talent. Such focus. Such a mind. He knew whom to listen to to get ahead.”

“People change with time, especially when they grow up,” Yuuri shrugged, “sometimes rather drastically in a very short time. I am sure, though, that he has a good idea of what he is doing with his life and with himself.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Yuuri took a deep breath, raised his head and looked Mr. Wagner in the eye. “Very sure. As you said, he is a very intelligent young man.”

“Well, I do hope so.” Again Mr. Wagner cleared his throat. “And do you know what _you_ are doing?” Again his gaze moved pointedly around the room.

“I think I am getting a rather good idea,” Yuuri said. Then he affected stifling a yawn. “Oh my, I'm sorry. Well, it is rather late. I thank you very much for your concern, Mr. Wagner,” and with that he walked slowly back to the door, forcing Mr. Wagner to follow him, “but I could not forgive myself to keep you from your well-deserved rest any longer. Have a good night.”

There was not much anyone could do when they were directed out in such a manner and so Mr. Wagner – in almost child-like obedience – nodded and with a last, “Good night, Yuuri, I will see you tomorrow morning” he was out.

Yuuri waited until the door was closed.

He then waited just a little longer before he turned and went back to his vanity.

With slow, deliberate movements he took up the rag again and dabbed lotion onto his skin, then rubbed, rubbed, rubbed until every last bit of artificial colour was gone, leaving only his own pale, slightly reddened skin in its wake.

A little longer, he waited just a little longer until he undid the buttons and fibulas of his costume and stepped out of it.

Viktor was watching and being slow would have been unnecessarily mean, so he hurried to get into his regular clothes.

Then, once more he waited.

Imagined a knock.

Went to the door and opened it, stared ahead for a moment and then looked left and right. With a shrug he closed the door again.

Mr. Wagner was gone, thank goodness.

“Alright,” he whispered and then heard a soft fall of steps as Viktor came out again.

He walked up to Yuuri, but then paused right in front of him, looking on, almost questioning and Yuuri smiled and reached out, took his hand and pulled him closer.

“Can you forgive me?”

“Can. Do.”

Viktor pulled him into his arms and for a long time only held him. And even a little later he didn't so much kiss him, rather than having his lips ghost over Yuuri's face and sometimes rest on one spot or another.

Finally Yuuri pulled him down to himself and kissed him, pulling him tightly to himself, refusing to let go of him.

Viktor may or may not have lifted him from the ground, just a little before his hands started playing with the buttons of Yuuri's shirt. “You could have stayed naked, you know,” he mumbled.

“And rob you of the pleasure of undressing me?” Yuuri's hands found their way under Viktor's shirt and laid there for a bit, just pressed against the skin. “It's cold, you should start wearing under shirts...”

“What a titillating image,” Viktor sighed, “Very enticing.”

“Pneumonia is even less titillating,” Yuuri argued and moved his fingertips until Viktor chuckled.

Another kiss.

And finally, finally Viktor asked, “Would you stay? Please?”

Yuuri laughed in reply and it came out a lot coarser and huskier than he would have thought. “As if I'd go anywhere else now.”

Another kiss. Another breath over his skin.

Another moment Yuuri could savour.

Then, after a while, a long, long while, they parted and Viktor took him by the hand and they walked and sneaked, and hid and ushered through the theatre house and sometimes had to wait in a nook or behind a corner when someone walked by, pressed close together, sometimes pressing a hand on each other's mouth to prevent them from too hysteric fits of giggling and it built up in them and built up and built and grew.

The moment they closed the door to the tunnel behind them and were embraced and engulfed in utter, total darkness, Viktor pressing against him was the first thing Yuuri felt, then the hard, rough stone wall in his back and hands moving all over him and he half never wanted to move from this spot ever again.

But bed. But warmer rooms. But no danger of pneumonia.

But useful oils for lubrication.

The rational half of him piped up and he carefully pushed Viktor aside. “What? Take me to some dark alleyways and bend me over there?”

Viktor breathed over his lips. “I would beg to differ on who took whom to the dark alleyway, yes?”

“Would you now?”

They couldn't reach the cave soon enough.

Viktor was desperate for him, starved even, judging by the way he buried his face in the crook of Yuuri's neck and how he covered every bit of his neck and his shoulders and his chest with kisses and little bites, each only feeding the desperate need in Yuuri for more, more feeling, more contact, more, more, more.

“I missed you,” he whispered, breathing against Yuuri's skin, into his hair and against his lips, “I missed you, I missed you, I missed you...”

For a good while they clung to each other, holding, digging fingernails into each other, but only when they eased up, left their frenzy behind they could move on, could actually touch and feel and find some much needed balm for whatever rawness was left over from the last days.

Usually they got up and cleaned themselves before returning to bed, but today Viktor just couldn't be bothered and Yuuri didn't terribly mind. It was far too good to just curl up around Viktor, running fingers through his hair.

“That was a terrible week,” he mumbled.

“It was.” Viktor pulled him closer. “I am so sorry.”

Yuuri leaned in for a long, slow, sweet kiss. “Never again, then, huh?”

“Never again,” Viktor whispered. “I think I have hurt you enough to last us three life times.”

In lieu of an answer Yuuri just hummed a little.

A little while more. A little more silence, a little more quiet and finally, “So, why was Plisetsky hating me again all of a sudden?”

“As if he ever hated you,” Viktor sighed. “No, he does not, but he is out of sorts, poor boy. He already was not happy about me sending him to order flowers for you.”

“Which is kind of understandable. It's an awkward situation.”

“He did kind of well,” Viktor said, “He told me they mistook your name for a female one, so apparently it worked out alright.”

Yuuri shook his head. “Next thing I'll sing an alto role.”

“That would be interesting. An alto as a romantic lead, rather than a soprano, together with a bass – or maybe a baritone?”

Yuuri giggled. “Finish the opera you are still writing first, will you?”

“I do, but that does not mean that I cannot plan for the next one, right?”

Yuuri smiled and then sighed. “Apparently Mr. Wagner deigned to give some advice regarding interpersonal relationships. Apparently similar to mine, if I understood Yura right.”

“Oh,” Viktor sighed, “Oh no. Are you quite sure about this?”

“That's all Yura had said, but he didn't make a too happy impression on me.”

“Oh no,” Viktor repeated, “please don't tell me he broke things off with his stage hand.”

“No idea. I just know that he was a bit out of sorts today, but – well, he didn't talk too extensively with me. Did he tell you what Wagner said?”

Viktor nodded and kissed Yuuri's brow. “Apparently he –  _he –_ knows-”

“You know, you can say his name, right?” Yuuri asked, “It's not like he would show up all of a sudden down here just from you referring to him by name.”

Viktor grunted. “Urgh. Anyways, The Moron With Influence knows that Yura is seeing someone and said that young love is fine and pretty and wonderful, but also a distraction, a rather massive and potentially destructive one even. Apparently you were held up as a very bad example.”

“I am a bad example?” Yuuri chuckled. “Celestino will be so proud of me.”

“If _he_ considers you a bad example, you have every reason to be proud of yourself. Yura was not doing so well, so we spent the evening bemoaning our fate.” Viktor chuckled. “Until he apparently had enough of me and snapped that I should – how did he phrase it – _get my head out of my ass and apologize_. I promised him to do so. In return I got him to do two things for me.”

“Two for one?” Yuuri lazily ran a trail over Viktor's skin with his fingertips. “Hardly fair I would say.”

“Then it is a good thing I consider getting my head out of my rectal opening one entirely separate thing,” Viktor retorted dryly. “I asked him to, for one, do the same and for second, be a little more introspective when it comes to his own happiness. What he needs and what he wants in order to obtain it. And most importantly whether a person is worth knowing when they are not pleased with him whenever he decides to not obey every single one of their whims.”

“And?”

Viktor made a face. “As far as I have seen, Yura has yet to make up his mind on what matters to him more. Someone who cares for him very much and seems to utterly adore him or -” His face grew even longer, “Wagner.”

Yuuri withstood the urge to pat his head. Instead he said, “I hope it's not the latter. God, how is it that this man is still alive?” He shook his head. “One would think someone pushed him off a rooftop or something a long time ago.”

“I could help with that,” Viktor offered, “I told you, it would be terribly easy for me to drop a chandelier on him.”

Yuuri shook his head. “No, please don't, that's too dramatic.”

“I am Russian, we are always dramatic.”

This elicited a chuckle. “I noticed. But still, no. Too grandiose. He'd deserve something mundane. Rolled over by a beer cart or dying painfully and slowly of an illness.”

Viktor sighed. “I live to see the day when you muse about the death someone does or does not deserve to have.”

“The effects one single man can have, huh?” Yuuri now unwrapped himself from Viktor and stretched. “Let's not talk about him anymore. I'm too sticky. And tired. And happy.”

Viktor laughed and now reached up, grabbed Yuuri around the waist and pulled him back down to himself. “I am so glad to hear about the happy, but – are you sure about being tired?”

As it turned out, Yuuri was not. Thankfully, thankfully not.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one thing I thought I would never have to research is flower language of the 1840s and what flowers would be reasonably available for them. 
> 
> As usual, thank you all for reading and paying attention to me and - if you wanna chat, badger me with questions and make my day a little funnier, my tumblr goes by the same name.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas is coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I am in Vienna right now, visiting my dear, patiently suffering beta reader thegrimshapeofyoursmile I'll hand the preface and end notes over to her today.
> 
> Hello, my dears! It's an absolute pleasure to announce Sing For Me's next chapter and let me tell you: it's full of drama. Heartbroken Yuri! Viktor seeing the light! Yuuri in so much love! OTTO! And last but not least: a heartwarming scene with Yakov who deserves all the love and respect for putting up with all those idiots. Single manly tears will roll.   
> I won't take up your attention much longer. Enjoy your read, hopefully as much as I did!

Chapter 24

 

Plisetsky was in a rather downcast mood the next day; Yuuri would have almost called it sulking if it wasn't for the fact that Plisetsky's eyes were red-rimmed and puffy.

He didn't talk to Mr. Wagner. Which was good, at least in Viktor's book, and from all that Yuuri had seen of the man he heartily agreed. Less agreeable he found the fact that Plisetsky didn't seem to talk to Otto Becker and, as Viktor said, refused to either change that course of action or give a reason for it.

October ended. November came.

The upcoming winter season kept Phichit busy and on his feet and Yuuri didn't see him nearly as frequently as in the last months, and considering he and Viktor were still mending their relationship that was probably for the best, both for them and for Phichit, who really deserved better than constantly having their reconciliation rubbed into his face.

The few times Yuuri did see him, though, he seemed chipper enough, chatting on and on about the trips to Leipzig, Chemnitz and Meissen that he was doing so recently lately. “Winter does something to these people here,” he chirped, “All of a sudden all they want is cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, cinnamon, ginger and – cinnamon. I hardly can order new goods as fast as they are sold out again and some of these customers and contacts are new and seem to be interested in a continued partnership.”

He was content to listen to him and report on his own, still very meagre successes and progresses at the theatre.

“You are not doing anything on Christmas, right?” he asked one day.

Phichit shook his head. “Why would I celebrate a Christian holy day? I got my own set to observe.” He smiled. “And you?”

The question was flying around a lot lately, which probably was to be expected. “Not much, I guess. I'll hear mass and that's it.”

That was his typical answer to the question and it was a good one, he thought.

Sadly, several of his friends didn't quite agree with this sentiment.

“What? How can you say that's it?!” Andreas shook his head as they sat together after rehearsal. “I mean, it's Christmas we're talking about.”

“Eh. Easter is more important, really,” Yuuri replied with a shrug.

“And your reason for that would be?”

Ah. Friendly, theological disputes with the heretics, Yuuri loved those so much. “Because it is more important to the whole thing. Without the crucifixion and then the resurrection, Christ would have been only Jesus, son of Mary by who knows whom, a regular man.” Sometimes there had been Jews in Milan, and Muslims, and sometimes even a Protestant. The latter had been a rare occurrence, but Celestino had loved debating confessional differences with them, despite being rather mundane in his piety himself.

“Might be,” Andreas huffed, “but regular man or not, in order to be crucified he had to be born first. A regular human being. That was the whole point, so you should celebrate Christmas with – oi, Plisetsky!”

The boy in question stopped dead in his tracks, turned around and looked at them over his shoulder, as if pondering whether to hear them out or whether to run away. “What?”

“Christmas or Easter, what's more important?” Andreas asked.

Plisetsky stared at them some more. Then he took a deep breath. “Why the hell are you asking me?!”

“Because I can't convince Yuuri on my own and he will probably listen to you more than to me,” Andreas declared.

“Still the wrong guy!” Plisetsky huffed. “I'm Orthodox, I was raised by a Jew and I never go to church because I don't have one here I could attend properly, so why would I give a toot about it?” And with that he stomped off again.

“Charming as ever, huh?” Andreas commented.

Yuuri nodded a little. Christmas didn't seem too important to them, then, not to Plisetsky, maybe not to Viktor and very likely not to Mr. Feltsman.

He still would be getting them something small, nothing big, because even though he knew Christmas celebrations to be a rather small, apropos affair, presents had always been a part of that. For Plisetsky it would be a copy of E.T.A. Hoffmann's  _ Tomcat Murr _ , in hopes of teaching him some humour. Also it was about a cat, which was fitting, since Yuuri had learned a while ago that Plisetsky was quite fond of these silent, velvet-clad, purring murder monsters. For Mila and Sara he had sweets in mind, the same as for his friends in the chorus. Nothing too fancy, nothing anybody could – in the case of the dames – mistake as a sign of hidden affection – but personalized to the tastes of the receiver. Sweets were always good.

Mr. Feltsman came by and nodded to them. “Hard work today?”

Andreas nodded. “Yes, and now we continue with it.”

“Da. How is work with Wagner?”

“Taxing,” Yuuri answered wryly.

Mr. Feltsman nodded and sighed a little. “Yes. Is bad. But can take it. Were good with me. Are good with me. Will survive this.”

“Spasibo,” Yuuri mumbled.

Mr. Feltsman looked at him and then barked out a laugh. “You speak Russian like old dying dog bark. Work. Much work.”

Yuuri felt his ears grow hot. “I'll see to it.”

Mr. Feltsman nodded and then walked off.

“But you do think about presents, right?” Andreas asked. “I mean, even if you don't-”

“I do, quite a bit actually.” He smiled. “I like giving presents to people. By the way, I know he's Jewish, but what do you think, can we collect enough money for a nice, big bottle of good Vodka for him?”

Andreas chuckled. “Definitely. We can ask around after rehearsal.”

“Good, if we don't take to long, I'm a bit pressed for time.”

“Ah yes.” Andreas nodded. “You and your girl are still fine then? No new arguments?”

“None whatsoever. Smoothly sailing towards the horizon.”

“Glad to hear that.”

And then, Mr. Wagner was there and rehearsal commenced.

 

It was an interesting coincidence that Yuuri had been asked about his plans for Christmas, because when he got home to the boarding house later that day there was a letter from Johannes.

Which was not surprising, since in the past months he had sent regular updates on his life in the countryside, about the health of his sister and the progress of her pregnancy, which after a while had been replaced by reports on her little daughter, who was apparently growing up rather well.

This one was different. Mainly because it was rather short. But also because of the content.

_ Dear Yuuri,  _ it read,  _ I hope you are doing well in Dresden, you have been rather silent on updating me on things related to the theatre, which I am inclined to feel slightly resentful for. If you want to silence these feelings, please consider my offer. Eleonora and Johanna are rather keen on celebrating Christmas out here in the countryside and would like to have you around. For my part, I would love to have you here as well. Zabeltitz is lovely in summer; right now it is a bit dull, what with all the fog and rain, but I have a strong feeling it will be beautiful in winter. Please consider it. I don't know how your girl plans to spend Christmas, but if she is free and willing, I am sure she would be much welcome here, as well. _

Yuuri highly doubted that, but the sentiment was sweet nonetheless.

_ Let me know your answer as soon as possible. We are all well, although a bit under the weather. Big Eleonora deals with a cold, but little Ella is doing well and gives us much joy. You will love her the moment you will see her. Of course, this is the proud uncle talking here, but she is indeed wonderful. _

_ With this, I leave you. With much affection, _

_ Johannes _

The first question that shot through Yuuri's mind was how important Christmas was to Viktor. Everything would depend on that question. If Viktor wanted him to stay and spend the holidays together, Yuuri obviously would. Of course. Of course.

 

“That sounds nice,” Viktor said the next day after having finished reading.

They were lazing off on the chaise lounge, having read a bit after Yuuri's lesson and then, finally, Yuuri had handed him the letter.

“Are you sure?” Yuuri asked, carefully studying his face. Him stating that something sounded nice didn't mean he would like Yuuri taking part in it, so much he had learned.

But Viktor smiled, genuinely, kindly, with so much warmth that it made Yuuri's heart ache.

“Very sure,” Viktor said.

“It's Christmas. Most people around here make a bit of a fuss about it.”

Viktor shrugged and handed the letter back to Yuuri. “It is a nice idea and it would be good for you to get away from the city for a bit. I do not care much about Christmas, to be honest, and it is not like I would be completely devoid of company. Yura and Yakov like to come down here and get away from all the stress.”

Yuuri could hardly blame them. And he was glad Viktor didn't mind, he really was, but still his one eye had flickered quite a bit when he had read the letter.

“So, on Christmas Eve we meet up here real quick for exchanging gifts – and giving one to Mr. Feltsman, don't tell him.”

“I will be as silent as a grave,” Viktor promised solemly.

“Then I can get a mail carriage to at least Großenhain – that would take me three hours. Four to five if the road is bad. Then another half-hour until I am out in Zabeltitz if there is a carriage to take me there...” He sighed. “I will most definitely stay there for the 25th of December and return on the 26th in the evening. And I don't think I'll make it down here for even a short visit.“ The thought was already giving him a headache and then he had to think of presents for his hosts too; probably sweets too and of course something for the baby.

Another argument in favour of his stance towards Christmas. Less celebration meant less fuss and subsequently a whole world of less stress for him.

“Do not stress yourself to get back here,” Viktor said and started to run a hand through Yuuri's hair. “Yes? We do not even celebrate Christmas on the same day than the Western confessions, so if you insist, you have two more weeks until the Russian Christmas is here.”

“Three Kings day, huh?”

Viktor nodded. “The day Christ was recognized and hailed as the saviour.”

Yuuri chuckled. “I know someone who would just love to discuss some finer points of this with you.”

“Hopefully someday,” Viktor said, “But since we are on the topic, I have not asked you yet what you would want for Christmas. Obviously, I would have to ask Yura to procure it, but...”

“No need to.” Yuuri leaned back, resting his head against Viktor's shoulder. “Right now I've got everything I need to be happy.”

Viktor wrapped his arms around him and pulled him closer to himself, smiling so, so brightly. “You are too sweet.”

Alright, Yuuri amended only to himself, he had been wrong. Now he had everything he needed. Everything he could ask for.

Time to give back.

 

He had to wait until the beginning of December, but then, finally, the weather had turned from wet misery to dry, sharp teeth of wind. The cold, rather than seeping into skin and bones, lingering there and keeping one shivering for hours, now only would bite nose and cheeks, sometimes limbs but it would always leave soon again.

It was this sort of cold Yuuri had been waiting for and he watched anxiously as the river Elbe, bit by bit, froze over.

He was not the only one; the same children that before, in autumn, had run through the fallen leaves now stood at the riverbanks and watched the Elbe as it came to a halt bit by bit by bit and as that day came closer and closer, Yuuri's plan took a bit more shape. It wasn't a particularly complicated plan, but he needed help.

Thank goodness that Plisetsky was sulky enough that Yuuri's suggestion seemed like a good distraction to him.

“Why not? It does sound like a nice idea.” And with that he rubbed his temples. “It is not like I got anything better to do, either.”

So he still hadn't talked to Otto. Yuuri sighed. “What do you say, should we invite Mr. Feltsman as well?”

At least this got him to laugh, albeit it was only a brief and rather sharp laugh. “He hates the cold. Always claims that's the reason he left Russia. And he'd think it a stupid idea anyways, so no.”

“Alright then. Just the three of us.”

Plisetsky nodded. “Just the three of us.” He smiled, weakly. “Sounds nice.”

“Alright. See you on Saturday.”

And with that he could turn around. That was taken care of.

Until Saturday he ran around town like mad, trying to procure knife shoes for three people, finally borrowing them from Andreas, Alexander and Thomas.

“Who's the third person, though?” Alexander asked with amusement as he handed Yuuri his pair, “Your girl got a watchdog or something?”

“Or something,” Yuuri laughed, “Thanks a lot!”

He had the skates.

Plisetsky brought warm clothes on Saturday evening that looked like he had nicked them from Mr. Feltsman. That was probably not too far from the truth.

They had a performance to give that evening and they both were so giddy and exited that at some point Mila finally joked, “Oh, come on, one could think you were going out tonight together!”

“Mila, no, please!” Andreas wheezed, “don't think such things, don't, not...”

Mila looked at him curiously and then asked, “Are you quite alright? You seem a bit pale.”

Thankfully after the performance they both managed to slip out and away from anyone before any more questions could be asked to them.

“You got everything?” Yuuri asked as they headed downstairs to the basement.

“No, I am carrying vegetables with me in this big, heavy bag,” Plisetsky answered, lifting up said bag. “Since of course I forgot warm clothes, so Viktor will freeze his ass off tonight and require you nursing him back to health.”

“Brilliant plan,” Yuuri chuckled, “I'll keep it in mind for later, maybe we will need it.”

Plisetsky rolled his eyes. “No, seriously. A thick, woollen pullover, two under shirts, a jacket, a coat,” With that he ran a hand over the coat he was wearing, a – admittedly quite soft - monstrosity of rabbit fur that was far too big for the boy and hung on him like a bag of water – “Long johns – they belong to him actually, so they smell a little murky, but they are clean. Socks, a pair of trousers. Thick winter shoes – can you believe he and Yakov can swap shoes without noticing?”

“Same foot size?”

“Same foot size. So yeah, we got everything. A hat, a scarf, mittens – Sara knitted these once, she loves knitting her Christmas presents, prepare to be bombed with socks and mittens and whatnot.”

Yuuri chuckled. “I consider myself properly warned.”

“You got the knife shoes?”

“Was a bit of running, but I got blades you can tie under your shoes – seemed the better option for me, I don't know your shoe size.”

“Should be about the same as yours.” Plisetsky looked him up and down and Yuuri noticed that they were almost the same height. “Yeah, should be a fit. Just for future reference.”

Yuuri shrugged. “I don't think that would be of too much use, you're still growing, I guess.”

“Yeah, probably. Hopefully not too much anymore, I mean, I would hate if my voice changes again just because my body doesn't know when to stop.”

“I don't think that's how it works.”

They disappeared into the dark corridor to Viktor's cave and walked in silence, focusing on not stumbling in the utter darkness with their load – and, if possible, letting their step fall as silently as possible.

It was a Saturday; Viktor would not expect Yuuri coming down tonight. Maybe he would hope for Plisetsky's company, but fact was he was alone.

Yuuri felt a rather gleeful twinge rippling through his body at the prospect of surprising him.

There was a little light from the candles and lamps in the cave and they stopped.

Yuuri turned to Plisetsky. “Just a fair warning,” he whispered, almost only breathed, “you'll be probably very disgusted in a few moments.”

“I am always disgusted with you two,” Plisetsky breathed back.

Yuuri suppressed a laugh and stepped into the cave.

Viktor was alone, of course, not expecting anybody, having settled down to spend his evening in comfortable solitude, on the chaise lounge, a book between his slender, long hands, hair pinned up to keep it out of his face.

Yuuri slowly, softly, ever so softly, stepped closer, closer, closer and then leaned in to place a kiss on his neck. “Evening, love.”

The reaction was quite impressive.

Viktor squirmed, then startled; finally, he twitched and all this in one, smooth moment.

“What...” He turned around. “Yuuri! What are- did I forget a lesson?”

“Not at all.” Yuuri leaned in for another kiss. “I just had plans tonight.”

“Oh. Plans.” Viktor raised his visible eyebrow. “Apparently plans involving me?”

“Hm, I do.” He grinned. “Very lovely plans indeed.”

“Huh,” Viktor hummed and lifted his arms, wrapped them around him and tried to pull him over the back of the chaise lounge and next to himself. “Do you now?”

“Urgh, not that disgusting!” Plisetsky complained. “You're trying to kill me or what?”

“What?” Viktor looked to Plisetsky. Then he looked to Yuuri. And then back to Plisetsky again. “What... are you part of the plans for tonight?”

“Yes,” Plisetsky answered quite curtly, “although I am of a mind of regretting it right now.”

“I...” Viktor cleared his throat. “I assume the plans thus involve us all being fully clothed.”

His train of thought briefly rushed through Yuuri's head and Yuuri shuddered. “Please, yes? I prefer us being all... well, not that.” He got up and pulled Viktor with him on his feet.

“Fully agree,” Plisetsky declared. “Although, Viktor, you will get a bit more naked for a bit. And then less so.”

“What?”

The surprise on his face was the most wonderful expression Yuuri had ever seen. He could very much get used to that. Very much.

Plisetsky lifted the bag over his head, then turned it with the opening downwards and gave it a shake.

Clothes fell out, clothes, clothes, clothes and at last a pair of boots, all tightly and neatly folded to take up as little space in the bag as possible.

Yuuri could only marvel at Plisetsky's talent.

Also Plisetsky shrugged off the coat. Looking at it closer, Yuuri suspected it would fit Viktor just fine.

“What?” the very same asked once more.

“You heard the boy,” Yuuri chirped. “Get out of these ridiculous clothes and into something proper, will you?”

“Why are you so unnecessarily cruel about my trousers, they are lovely!” Viktor gestured down on himself; of course, he was wearing the pirate trousers again. And a frilly shirt.

“Might be, but they aren't too warm, so...” Plisetsky gestured to the pile of clothes. “If you don't dress yourself, I will. Not gladly, be assured, and even less gently.”

Apparently that was enough to get Viktor to comply with their demands. Yuuri took a mental note of that.

“May I ask,” he piqued up as he stepped out of his trousers and struggled to put on the long johns, “why I am supposed to dress warmly?”

“Because you'll be catching your death otherwise,” Plisetsky snapped, “also I refuse to be seen with you when you are wearing these things.”

“And here I thought you loved me,” Viktor sighed.

“You, not your fashion sense.”

Yuuri looked on as Viktor put on one under shirt, then, after hesitation and a dark glare from Plisetsky, also the other one and then the pullover.

“I still do not understand,” he finally said, as he put on the trousers and the shoes.

“You will,” Plisetsky said. “Jacket.”

Viktor obeyed remarkably demurely. Yuuri had to learn Plisetsky's secret. If it wasn't related to younger-brother-privileges (like several things between Alexander and Thomas) he most definitely wanted to get that.

“Come,” Plisetsky then said and they walked upstairs.

Viktor didn't say anything for a long time. Silently they walked up the dark corridor. Silently they went through the basement. Silently – and secretly, pressed into nooks and crannies whenever a late-working stagehand passed by – they sneaked through the theatre. Yuuri at some point had taken Viktor's hand and was holding it still when Plisetsky found an inconspicuous side entrance. “Alright. Here. Nobody ever hangs around that spot.”

He fumbled with something; Yuuri heard a metallic jingle, then a small crunch as Plisetsky moved a key in a keyhole.

He peered outside. “Alright. Nobody here. Viktor. Coat. Scarf. First.”

Viktor didn't move.

“Oi, Viktor!”

Viktor looked at them. “I... what?”

“Get in your scarf and coat before we drag you outside and force you to get into it,” Plisetsky growled.

Yuuri silently held up the scarf.

This Viktor put on, but when he touched the coat his hand shrank back like from fire. “No, I... no, what... what do you two...”

“Urgh.” Plisetsky sighed. “Katsuki! Some help here?”

Yuuri sighed. “Sorry, dear.” He grabbed Viktor by the arm and pulled him outside, right into a gust of wind.

“Ew!” Viktor squeaked and when Yuuri now offered him the coat he quickly slipped into it and buttoned it up with remarkable speed. Also he quickly put on the hat and the mittens Plisetsky offered him.

“There.” Yuuri took his now wool-clad hand again. “That's much better now, isn't it?”

“What are you doing?!” Viktor hissed, “I... does Yakov... you know I can't...”

“You can't go outside, yes,” Plisetsky sighed with an air of long suffering that made Yuuri wonder how often exactly they had have had this discussion before. “Well, you can't go outside because you're afraid to be recognized. Alright. It's night. Nobody can see one bloody thing clearly. And it's cold, so you can hide your face with hats and scarves and whatever and nobody gives a shit.”

“Language,” Viktor mumbled.

“So, we're taking you out at night.”

Yuuri felt how Viktor's hand tensed around his. “But – but why?”

“Because you won't stop moping about it and because you being miserable is annoying as fuck, so Katsuki had this idea.”

Viktor turned to Yuuri. “I am annoying?”

Yuuri chuckled. “Never, love, never.”

“Ha!”

“But I have to admit, you can get lost in it a bit. On occasion. Not very often.”

“What...”

Yuuri wrapped an arm around him. “Come on, let's go.”

It was already deep night, the plaza between theatre, Zwinger, Royal Church and Castle being mostly abandoned and only lit by the very occasional street lamp. They would be very safe.

Viktor still looked around anxiously, flinching whenever the odd night owl wandered over the other side of the street and sometimes, every few steps when there was a spot away from any building and outside of street lamp light he would stop and stand and look up into the night sky.

At some time Yuuri allowed his gaze to follow Viktor's and his head was spinning.

The air was glass clear and vibrant; the night sky a velvet darkness that seemed almost comforting. And stars. So, so, so many stars above them, calmly sending down their little lights, so many. Yuuri couldn't remember whether he had ever seen so many stars in Milan, but maybe that was because he rarely ever had spent his time looking up to them.

Viktor squeezed his hand.

“Alright, let's go or we'll be here when spring comes,” Plisetsky grumbled.

They went on. Down to the Elbe it was only a short walk, but finding a spot where they could get to the water took them a bit further away from the theatre and the more distance they brought between themselves and the building, the more Viktor's step regained confidence and strength.

Yuuri heard him taking a deep, intense breath. “I missed this,” he confessed. “I did not even know how much. Or that I missed it at all. But now – the air is so different. So – so alive.”

“Goes to show how long you've been cooped up,” Plisetsky commented. “High time you got out!”

And finally they found a suitable spot. Yuuri reached into his bag. “Alright. Viktor, can you close your eyes?”

“Why both? One would be entirely enough.”

“Then only one. Please?”

“Alright.” Viktor closed his eye.

Plisetsky stepped to his right side and took his arm.

“Thank you – now your left foot, if you don't mind?”

Viktor lifted his left leg a little and Yuuri reached into the bag, found a pair of knife shoes and carefully tied one of them under his soles. “Alright. The other one.”

“Alright.” Viktor put his foot down and apparently he already noticed that something was different; his face twitched, Yuuri could see. He extended the other foot.

Yuuri tied the blades to it, then shouldered the bag and took Viktor's left arm. “Alright. Please follow us, good sir.”

“Oh, I am a good sir, I wonder what nefarious purpose you have to bring me all the way out here,” Viktor commented dryly.

“You'll see.” They led him to a bench and after Plisetsky had brushed away the snow they sat him down.

“Can I open my eyes now?”

“Not yet.” Yuuri handed a pair of blades to Plisetsky, then took the last one for himself and they started tying them to their shoes.

“And now?”

“No.”

“And now?” By now Viktor sounded a bit whiny.

“No,” Yuuri declared, feeling a bit like a parent to a toddler.

“And now?”

“We'll tell you when you can open your eyes again, goddamnit,” Plisetsky growled.

Viktor at least managed to be silent while Yuuri finished tying and fixing the buckles of his blades.

When he checked on Viktor's buckles, though, there was another, “And now?”

“Not yet. A little more patience, dear.”

“But I want to know!”

“Can't help but notice,” Plisetsky snarked.

Yuuri laughed. “You will know in a moment, trust me. Alright. This looks good. Come.”

They helped Viktor up and then, rather awkwardly, stalked towards the river Elbe.

Plisetsky got onto the ice first, carefully checking whether it would actually hold them all.

It was stable.

“Alright,” he said, “slow now, only take a step when I say so and don't let go of us – now, now, stop!” He glided away a little bit. “Alright, another... good. Now wait.”

Yuuri carefully put one foot on the ice, then another and then glided to Viktor's side. “Alright. I guess you can open your eyes now.”

Viktor blinked.

He looked up to the stars.

Then on the ice. And then to his feet.

Finally he looked first at Plisetsky, then at Yuuri. “You are crazy,” he declared, “this is wonderful. And you are crazy.”

“What a surprise,” Plisetsky commented. He slid away, pulling Viktor with him. “You remember how it goes?”

“Of course, I...” Viktor laughed and then followed a stream of Russian to fast for Yuuri's limited knowledge to follow. He only understood  _ led, _ the Russian word for ice and  _ ya nauchil _ .

It was enough to catch the meaning.

“You taught him ice skating?”

Viktor looked at him and continued in his stream until Yuuri raised a hand. “Sorry, love, I'm still a bit too slow for that.”

“Oh.” Viktor blinked. “Oh, sorry, I was so excited. Yes, I...” he paused, searching for words. “Yes. I taught Yura how to skate on the ice, me and Yakov,” he then said. “And before that Yakov taught me, he always took us to the lake near the mansion the moment the ice was thick enough and when we got back there would be hot wine with honey and spices and sugar and warm, dry clothes. Yura loved snowball fights.”

“You started them!”

Yuuri laughed and then Viktor pulled at his arm and over the ice, whirling him around, arm tight around his waist.

Dimly Yuuri noticed how Plisetsky for a moment skated in circles around them and then moved away in gentle, soft strokes, then took a leap, rotated in the air and then landed again, continuing with his rounds.

“He learned that from you too?”

“From me, yes. Yakov did not really like it when we did that. He always said we would one day break our neck, but it was fun and we were free – it is like dancing. Without a partner. Maybe that is what is so nice about it, given our status in Russia.” He extended his arm, circling around Yuuri. “What do you think, can you do it?”

“What?”

Viktor let go of his hand, skated a circle and then jumped, spun through the air and landed. In a swooping line he came back to him. “What do you think?”

Yuuri thought only for a moment about it. “I would love to learn it. In daylight.”

“In Milan then?” Viktor asked, “are you sure we can find ice there?”

“Hm.” Yuuri hummed as Viktor led him into a movement that closely resembled a waltz. “Maybe we won't be in Milan the whole time. I think I would like very much to travel a bit, what do you say?”

“Gladly.”

And then they were silent, gliding smoothly over the ice; Viktor very often closed his eyes, feeling the cold wind on his face and Yuuri by his side, listening to the soft scratch of their blades on the ice, the occasional sharp thud that was Plisetsky jumping and landing and rarely, very rarely sounds from the city.

Sometimes he opened his eye, looking at the stars, a blissful smile tucked in the corner of his lips.

Under his hat a few errand strands of his long hair had sneaked out and fell over his back, mirroring the moon over them.

They were so alone right now, alone in the world, alone in the whole universe and never had Yuuri been happier.

At some point Viktor started humming, softly humming and he measured his steps to the melody.

Yuuri recognized a waltz and when Viktor led him into a dance he gladly allowed it.

Plisetsky circled peacefully around them, enwrapping them in the sound of his skating – and then he fell silent.

It was too quiet a night out here not to notice and they stopped.

The boy stood on the ice, looking ahead with a very stony expression on his face.

On the shore of the river stood Otto Becker, looking at them with an equally stony face as Plisetsky was showing.

Viktor turned to Plisetsky. “Ty ne budesh vozrazhat, yesli ya govoryu s nim?”

“Kha-” He paused and then nodded. “Hm. Hm. Da.”

Viktor nodded and then, letting go of Yuuri's hand, he skated over to the shore.

“Huh,” Yuuri made.

Plisetksy swallowed audibly next to him. “He's talking to him.”

“I can see that,” Yuuri said. “You haven't, though, right?”

Plisetsky didn't answer.

They watched as Viktor talked at length to Otto, two very stiff, uncomfortable figures drawn with insecure strokes against the night sky.

“You know,” Yuuri sighed, “Viktor occasionally jokes that he would like to drop a chandelier on certain people's head.”

“Does he.”

“He does. With a passion. I think about suggesting you to be the first to receive that treatment. Maybe it will help.”

In reply, Plisetsky only winced.

“How are you feeling?”

“Urgh...” Plisetsky made a move as if he wanted to skate away, but Yuuri took his arm.

“You are the prime witness when something is off between me and Viktor and you are prime witness when we get through it, not to mention that you help a great deal with that. Care for me to return the favour?”

“If you insist, I don't think I like things the way they are now.”

“Good.”

“Don't think that's good,” Plisetsky mumbled.

“Oh, but it is. Being miserable is a step out of your misery.”

Plisetsky snorted.

“I'm serious,” Yuuri said. “Remember the mess after the banquet back in May?”

“The one you got shitfaced at?”

Yuuri sighed. “The same.”

“Yep. You talked though.”

“Yes, at some point I was done being miserable about it, so I figured I better do something.” Yuuri smiled. “If it had backfired I would have still been miserable, but for different reasons and I would have a clear answer instead of not knowing.”

“And what's that gonna have to do with me?”

“You're not happy with the situation. Hopefully you're already fed up with being unhappy or will be soon. Usually, when people are fed up with something they gonna do something about it. And maybe you should be fed up soon, before he's fed up and decides to move on in order to be less miserable.”

“That would be very much in his right,” Plisetsky said.

“Considering you stopped talking to him for no apparent reason whatsoever, I am inclined to agree with you. Pretty bad manners you're showing there.”

Plisetsky didn't answer.

“But you don't want him to, I suppose and would feel even worse if you'd let that happen without trying to salvage something.”

Still no answer from the boy.

“Which would be a pity, I for one do prefer you being your usual, charming, sweet-natured self. Misery doesn't suit you.”

“Being the chief expert on being miserable your judgement on that should be taken seriously, I suppose?”

Yuuri chuckled. “I have no idea how I earned that title, but thank you. ”

They watched on as Viktor and Otto talked a little longer.

Finally, with a curt nod, the figure on the shore turned around and walked away.

Viktor skated back to him and shook his head. “Yura, dear, sweet boy,” he sighed. “You know that I do love you very, very much.”

There was an annoyed grunt from Plisetsky. Yuuri watched him clam up, tense like a tightly wound spring coil.

“But you are an utter-”

“Urgh, alright, alright, I'm going!” Plisetsky exclaimed, throwing his arms up in the air, “have a nice night you two!”

He skated away a few paces, then paused – and then turned around, skated back to them and gave Viktor a very tight and very painful looking hug.

Then he let go, whirled around and almost fell when he headed for the shore, almost fell when he unbuckled and untied the blades from his shoes and then actually fell when he ran into the direction Otto Becker had disappeared into.

Viktor hummed rather contentedly to himself. “It does look like the recent bout of all around unhappiness has been dispelled?”

“Sure does,” Yuuri agreed. “What have you told him?”

“I had a great speech planned about how he better not hurt or harm my little brother, but of course Yura was quicker than me and hurt him before. So I did not give him that.”

“Thank Goodness,” Yuuri sighed, “he was already expecting one from me.”

“Yura would kill you.”

“My thought precisely.”

“So I left that part out and asked if he still wants to be with that little hedgehog.”

“And?”

“Yes. But he also says that he begins to see that it may not be mutual. I asked him for some patience until New Year. If Yura by then still has not gotten over himself, despite all my – and your – best efforts, then – well.” He sighed. “I offered him to drop a chandelier on Yura, just a small one. He declined. I do not know why, it might help his mental facilities.”

Yuuri chuckled. “I was of a mind to suggest it to you. But apparently that's not necessary anymore.”

“You have told him something.”

“Not much. Just suggested that if he's miserable, he can change it. That's it.”

“That's it,” Viktor repeated, imitating Yuuri's words. “And it is quite amazing, if you ask me.”

And once more he took Yuuri's hand, pulling him with him and then they moved over the ice again in smooth circles, Viktor gently leading him to the beat of the waltz he was humming, cheerful and sometimes even triumphant, so, so, so very light and Yuuri gleefully let himself be spun around and pulled close. “Thank you,” he whispered, “thank you, love, thank you for this, thank you...”

Yuuri pulled him down and into a kiss. “More of this in the next year, yes? More of this. Maybe with the ice, maybe without. Think we can do that?”

And Viktor, sweet, sweet, lovely Viktor – he nodded and he laughed. “I do think so!”

And they whirled around some more.

 

The good mood carried Yuuri through most of December and through most of the rehearsals.

He had picked several church songs of both Catholic and Protestant tradition, choral and sometimes with a solo singer up and front, so there was some variation. Also this choice meant that most of their songs were quite simple in their structure, easy to learn, easy to sing and thus very easy to turn into something quite impressive, be it by some added flourish, be it by the fact that they were a professional operatic choir, be it by arranging it in canon. Yuuri especially appreciated the latter one; singing in canon took Yuuri back to his very early days of choir singing before he had officially joined the chorus corps of the Scala.

Mr. Wagner, however, didn't seem in too much of a mood for Christmas cheer, driving them on and on and harking on them whenever he found a chance – which was often. “Really!” he yelled more often than not and at all of them; at least he was yelling at all of them instead of singling out his victims. Maybe even he was feeling some seasonally appropriate sense of charity. “Really!” he yelled thusly, “Am I really the only one understanding what it means to be singing in this noble house under such important patronage?!”

And he would throw his hands up in the air and complain and correct in the meanest way he could manage and – and nothing of it affected Yuuri the slightest.

“Well, I wonder,” Andreas snarked at one point, “if Mr. Wagner knows what it means to be very well paid by and kiss up to a king and ostensibly be of an opposing position to said king?” He had spoken very softly and he had not intended for Mr. Wagner to hear it.

Mr. Wagner heard it nonetheless and he was not amused. “Mr. Kästner, I had actually thought you more intelligent than this! One does well to go out of his way to secure first his survival and then maybe even his influence over those in power – only with this influence one can hope to change things for people without said influence, don't you see?!”

“Oh dear,” Alexander groaned, “he's had the very same speech last year around this time.”

“Really now?” Yuuri shook his head.

“Really. So. Annoying.”

Yuuri chuckled. “But he kind of has a point. Dead people have no influence over anyone, you know.”

“Yes, but he still could be little less...”

“Hypocritical?” Yuuri shrugged. “Fair enough. But if you want to do it that way without turning out like – well, like him then you need a lot more character than either of us all possesses. Some people even less than others.” To be completely honest, of all the people Yuuri knew Otto Becker was the only one who seemed to have enough backbone to rise, gain influence and not turn into a complete turd, but he didn't know him well enough to say for sure.

Plisetksy listened to Mr. Wagner's speeches during the rehearsals with a stony face, but something usually flickered in his eyes that looked almost like disgust. Also he did tend to avoid talking to Mr. Wagner quite vigorously these days, usually by latching onto Yuuri or any of his friends.

Yuuri could only imagine that Viktor and Mr. Feltsman secretly threw parties in celebration of that development and he couldn’t blame them. He himself found that it was something to celebrate, no doubt about that.

With rehearsals, his lessons and shopping for presents it was no wonder that time just flew and one day Yuuri woke up and it was December 24th.

All in all it was a rather ordinary morning; Yuuri got up, washed his face, muttered complaints about the water, got dressed, muttered complaints about the bitter cold in the bedroom in the boarding house and then, muttering in general, simply because he was on a roll, he walked downstairs to fetch breakfast.

Here he got the first hint that it was, in fact Christmas. The dining hall was decorated with branches of firs and hollies and on every table there was a small plate with cookies, Stollen and gingerbread.

Breakfast was unusually sweet as well, consisting of actual coffee, black and bitter and strong and of  _ Quarkkeulchen _ , sweet, very thick little pancakes made with potatoes and curd and fried in lot and lots of oil.

Yuuri had never had them before, but thankfully they were  _ delicious _ . Also they were quite filling, so after three pieces he was finished, downing his coffee and then getting up and out.

The winter air cut him in the nose with delightfully sharp bites and he laughed, laughed just a little from it, when he headed for the theatre, early as ever. Mr. Feltsman would be at the theatre anyways and sort through sheet music and libretti and probably think about what to do in the coming year, which was precisely the reason they had agreed to catch him there.

The sky was hidden behind heavy, grey clouds that promised more snow later that day; Yuuri didn't mind it. Snow was soft and silent, muffling the whole world until Yuuri was all alone with his thoughts, without anyone, anything pressing in on him.

“Merry Christmas!” he greeted and was greeted back. Looking around he spotted most of the soloist corps and also a a rather large chunk of the chorus, even August; he actually had chipped into their collection, which had surprised Yuuri to no end. But then again, most of the chorus had participated, so maybe he just didn't want to look cheap. In any case, Yuuri didn't complain.

“You got it?” he asked the women.

Sara, wrapped so thoroughly up in furs and woollen scarves that her fave was hardly visible, patted a bag that hung from her shoulder. “Leave it to the ladies to figure out where to get really good Russian alcohol without having to cross several countries.”

They squeezed themselves through the door and into the corridors and then, laughing and chatting among each other, wandered upstairs towards the offices.

It was warmer here than downstairs and most of them quickly discarded their scarves and coats.

Johannes Erhardt started handing out little linen bags tied with ribbons. “My wife did some baking,” he grinned, “Merry Christmas.”

“Aren't we actually supposed to only exchange presents in the evening, after service or mass or whatever?” Plisetsky asked, but he took his bag.

When Yuuri held his, it smelled of sweet cinnamon cookies.

“We're already all here, so what's the harm?”

It was the signal for them to start exchanging presents, mostly only among their closer friends or maybe a small gift for a senior singer as a sign of admiration.

Yuuri first received small presents he was to deliver to Johannes and then quickly dispatched of his little boxes of liquorice, ginger drops and cinnamon bonbons and got rewarded with sweets from his friends and – as Plisetsky had prophesied – mittens and a scarf from Mila and Sara, both in dark blue with black accents.

“Thank you!” He grinned. “I might survive winter after all.”

“Exactly this is the reason why I started knitting,” Sara laughed.

They were loud enough to be heard downstairs, probably, and so it was no wonder that Mr. Feltsman finally opened his door and poked out his grey, rugged head. “What is? Is Christmas, is holiday for you lot, why you here?”

Sara looked up. “Mr. Feltsman! Can we wish you a merry Christmas or would that be in bad taste?”

Mr. Feltsman looked at her curiously. “Eh. Is same to me. But thank you. And if you want from old Russian Jew, merry Christmas to you all.”

They looked at each other and chuckled.

“Well, good see you all,” Mr. Feltsman said, “Now go enjoy holidays. Will see you between years.” He tipped his cap and already turned around to close the office door behind himself.

“Oh, please, just a moment!” Sara turned to her bag and started rummaging through it. “We... well, Mr. Feltsman, we know you do not celebrate Christmas, but still – a token of all our appreciation of you and your hard work to bring us forward.” She pulled out a very large bottle of very thick glass that at the base of the neck was even cut into a square crystal pattern. “Thank you.” With that she held the bottle out to him. “Thank you for everything you have done and continue doing for us. Thank you.”

Mr. Feltsman looked at her.

Then he looked past her to the group and Yuuri could see him blink very rapidly and very energetically. “Is...” His voice was even rougher than usual and he turned around for a moment. Then, after having collected himself again a little, he turned back around to them. “Well,” he said. “Is good.” Holding up the bottle he even managed something that resembled a somewhat sardonic grin. “Will need it. Need to deal with you.”

There was a small round of laughter.

Mr. Feltsman nodded. Again he looked at the bottle and around them. “Thank you all. Thank you all very much. Is all worth it.” He swallowed and shook his head. “And out now. Is Christmas. You need be in church. And with family. Go. Out.” He made a shooing motion with his and and then, as quickly as he had shown up, disappeared back into his office.

The door closed with a thud.

“Well,” Plisetsky said, “he likes it. Will probably put it on a shelf, only break it out to very special occasions and even when he has emptied it will keep the bottle around and carry it with him whereever he will go. Good job. Good.” He walked over to his discarded coat and picked it up. “He's right, though, most of you have a church to to go to or a Christmas dinner to prepare, right? Shouldn't you be on your way?”

“Yeah, suppose so,” Alexander sighed. “Alright. We see each other all on 27th?”

“I'll be back by then, yes,” Yuuri said. “Probably with more sweets than I can fit into my suitcase, but I'll be back.”

After this it was a bit of a rush for all of them to get into their street clothes again, bid each other good bye and wish a merry Christmas and then hurry away to church.

So of course Yuuri only noticed that he still had the book for Plisetsky in his bag. Well, then it would travel with him to the countryside, in the pleasant company of the present he had gotten for Viktor.

It didn't make a difference. And the only thing that mattered was, that he was getting out, getting on, getting to move, getting to carry himself to the new year that would come in only a few days.

How he was looking forward to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well? Did I promise too much? I don't think so. Thank you for reading and supporting Sibi's lovely fanfic - in my eyes it is truly a piece of art and the work that is put into it is tremendous.   
> Please share your thoughts with us, we'd be delighted to hear your reaction! 
> 
> P.S.: Sibi loves doing some extras for Sfm, so if you have an idea for a oneshot hit her up! Same goes with fanwork: if you're hit with inspiration for a fanfic, fanart or whatever for Sfm, I can guarantee you that Sibi will just die then and there if something is submitted to her. I did some cosplay photos as Viktor with his pirate pants today and she squealed all the time during the entire procedure. 
> 
> Until the next chapter! *waves*


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Saxonian Countryside-style, featuring local history of the author's birthplace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the off-chance any Zabeltitz folks are reading - no, I had nobody specific in mind when I made up those folks here. Calm your kittens.  
> To anyone else - a Christmas chapter in March. What are the odds?

 

Chapter 25   


 

Mass was a solemn, elevating affair for as long as it lasted, but afterwards time pressured in on Yuuri again and he rushed over to Poststraße to catch his carriage to Großenhain, paid his fee and jumped on, his suitcase pressed close to his side.

The carriage was already full and he had to wedge himself between a family of four and a young single woman, sitting opposite of an elderly gentleman. All of them looked at him with varying degrees of curiosity and open disapproval, the young woman trying to get as much space between them as possible and the children of the family openly gawking at him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled and made himself smaller to give the woman more room.

Apparently this earned him her cautious approval and she smiled at him a little.

Nonetheless, the ride to Großenhain was a long and silent and quite awkward one. Yuuri breathed a sigh of relief whenever they stopped at a village on the way and someone left the carriage. It usually didn’t last long since the vacated spot quickly got occupied by a new traveling companion who continued to stare at Yuuri without ever directing a word to him. Yuuri would have probably felt better if someone had talked to him. Certainly less like a circus animal.

Finally, however, on a stop in Folbern the family and a middle-aged couple that had joined them in Radeberg (in exchange for the elderly gentleman) left the carriage and he and the young woman were left alone. 

At once he got up and placed himself opposite to her, looking out of the window over the landscape. 

The woman breathed in relief and did the same.

The countryside northern of Dresden was easy on the eye; wide, open fields, gently rolling hills, a few spots of trees sprinkled in between. Often enough the streets were lined with chestnut, oak and lime trees, their bare, dark branches standing in stark contrast to the bright sky and the blinding whiteness over the hills.

So silent. So empty. Only occasionally other carriages passed them. Even rarer was the sight of people venturing outside, wrapped up warmly in coats and hats and scarves, stomping through the snow. A family - Yuuri supposed - was having a little fun just outside of Kalkreuth, the young father pulling a sledge; the child was squealing so loudly with delight that they could hear it over the rattling and rumpling of the carriage as they passed them.

Aside of that, the world was pale and sleeping under the quickly falling darkness; for a brief moment the snow was alight with flame as it reflected the setting sun. Then, when the sky had turned from copper gold to a glassy, indigo hue and then to almost black, the snow, set alight by the moon, broke through the darkness and shimmered in a shade of white that was almost blue itself.

So peaceful.

So alone.

At least until they reached Großenhain. The first two street were still sleepy in respectful, sleepy holiday silence, but the closer they came to the inner town the more decorations were put up and the more people were on the streets on their way home from evening service, judging by the merry greetings and the ringing of the bells that filled the street.

Großenhain was a miniature version of Dresden in pretty much every regard; the streets were shorter, the houses, very tidy, neat and with colourful facades, a little more cramped. The market square was a good deal smaller than the plaza in front of the theatre in Dresden. Even the church - the only one in town - looked like a more humble version of the great, grandiose Church of Our Lady.

The snow was the same, covering the rooftops in soft, pillow-thick layers and encrusting the branches of the bare trees, almost giving out under the weight they were carrying.

The main market square was occupied by small wooden huts that made up the local Christmas market. Yuuri could already spot holes in the setup where a vendor had decided that they wanted to be home early for Christmas. A few huts selling roasted almonds and mulled wine were still open, maybe hoping for some last business from thirsty and cold churchgoers. He was already of half a mind to while away time there if he had to wait for Johannes. 

The carriage stopped in a side street between a pharmacy and the city hall and Yuuri climbed out, offering a hand to the woman.

Amazingly she accepted the help, climbed out and mumbled a soft, “Thank you,” before a woman called, “Regine! Hoo-hoo, here!” and she rushed off, skirts rustling over the pavement wet from snow sludge.

Yuuri himself took his suitcase, walked out on the market square with a lot more leisure in his stroll and let the scent of sugar almonds, wine and spices waft around him that came from one of the last open huts which reminded him that he had not yet had lunch.   
He could use a bite. And maybe a drink as well?

“Hey! Yuuri! Yuuri, I’m here!”

He turned around to see Johannes sitting on a small, two-horse cab while waving at him. Immediately he forgot about both nuts and wine.

“Hey!” He walked to him.

Johannes offered him a hand and pulled him up into the seat before hugging him. “It’s so good to see you - and merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas.” Yuuri hugged him back tightly. “We miss you in Dresden.”

“Tell me all about it when we’re in Zabeltitz,” Johannes said, taking the reins, “When it’s that dark I need to focus on the road.”

“That bad?”

“Not particularly wide and too many bloody trees blocking out every bit of light I could use to see something. One would think they’d like to kill people that way.”

Yuuri laughed. “I guess I’ll hold the lamp for you then?”

“I’d love you too.”

Leaving Großenhain meant that he saw a little more of the town first, most impressive of all being a bulky, big watch tower looking over an equally bulky building. In the darkness it looked like a big animal, ready to lunge at them. “Wouldn’t have thought that Großenhain has a castle,” he commented.   


“It’s not really one anymore,” Johannes said, “Got destroyed a few times too many and nobody ever really bothered finished reconstruction on it beyond keeping it from crumbling. Right now it’s a yarn factory.”   


“I see.” Yuuri looked around. “Town’s quite… pretty.”   


“And dull.” Johannes laughed. “One small theatre here and that’s it. Of course they have no use for a chorus singer from Dresden, not if he is not an accomplished actor; one would think as a province stage they’d be less picky about new performers, but then again… if I end up here I might as well kiss any prospects of an actual career good-bye.”   


“Well, considering you live in a village this here should already be more exciting than your everyday life,” Yuuri commented.   


“You’d be surprised. I mean, yeah, for entertainment Zabeltitz has not much to offer as well, but - well, that’s why it’s a village, I guess. But a town should be fun and seductive with its vices and should get you to loosen up a bit. I think.”   


They left the town behind and once more Yuuri found himself surrounded by open fields and silence, soft, feathery silence, only cut through by the sound of the hooves hitting the pavement.    


“It’s so wide,” Yuuri mumbled.   


“I know, right?” Johannes smiled. “One feels pretty alone when going through here. Kind of nice, really.”   


“Can see that.” A row of trees came up and Yuuri lifted the lamp on its stick above his head and in front of them.   


The trees, despite their barren, skeletal branches, did a rather impressive job in blocking their view of the fields around them, not to mention keeping even what little light the moon had to offer away from them, and so they had to go slow for a rather long stretch.    


Yuuri wanted to talk, to tell Johannes about everything that had happened in Dresden, but Johannes had his gaze fixed on whatever bit of road the lamp was illuminating at the moment, slowly guiding the horses around too deep puddles, too large spots of ice and too thick wafts of snow.   


Only when they passed another village (“Walda”, Johannes said, “pretty much like Zabeltitz, but we have a park there. A pretty one, even, and sometimes they actually let people in to admire it”), the horses were allowed to canter again and Johannes relaxed a little.   


“You’re good at this,” Yuuri commented.   


“Got a lot of practise since I got here,” Johannes laughed, “Johanna and Eleonora love taking rides and I guess Ella won’t be any different. She already moves like she wants to take the reins when Johanna takes her with us. Of course, she’s too young to actually do so right now, but - well, things will get interesting when she is older.”   


“How old is she now?”   


“Half a year,” Johannes answered. “Looks more like her mother every day, thank goodness. Johanna loves her and Eleonora dotes on her.”   


“Has her father ever contacted you?”   


“No. Aside from sending money, that is. Even if, Johanna wouldn't want anything to do with him anymore. I mentioned him once to her and...”  Johannes sighed. “Suffice to say, up until this point it had been a very warm September day and it was warm again the next day, but in-between you could have thought it was mid-winter.”   


“No questions about Ella's father, understood,” Yuuri sighed and nodded.   


“Yes, that is the best course of action, actually,” Johannes agreed.    


And then, finally, the first houses appeared.   


“Welcome to Zabeltitz, estate village in ownership of the chamberlain and free lord Friedrich of Weissenbach, who finally took mercy on this place and bought it.”   


“Mercy?”   


“I suppose it was a mercy, since nobody wanted the stewardship over it for several decades,” Johannes laughed.   


“What?”   


They took a turn to the left as they passed an inn. The windows were mostly dark, only upstairs Yuuri could spot some light.   


“Yep. Eleonora told me about it and our pastor here is an amateur historian. He loves digging up tidbits about the local history – if you want to keep him busy and out of anyone's hair, ask him about the mess that the previous stewards got into and how nobody wants it anymore. Most people around here will be eternally grateful to you if you do. Might even build you a shrine or something.”   


“Zabeltitz is Protestant, right?” Yuuri chuckled, “Isn't this kind of against your strict anti-idolatry doctrine?”   


“I am sure one can make an exception for actual, true, living saints.”   


Now Yuuri laughed out loud. “Speaking of which, when you picked me up, service was just over in the church in Großenhain, didn't you miss it here?”   


“Eleonora, Johanna and I were right after noon, so they could oversee dinner preparations and the decoration of the parlour while I fetch you,” Johannes explained, “So yes, we did our Christian duty and also you won't have to attend service while you're here.”   


“Thank goodness – sorry!”   


Johannes laughed.   


“But it would be quite awkward, I don't even know how your service works.”   


“Not much different than a Catholic mass, I suppose,” Johannes shrugged, “less Latin, probably.  And of course, less blood sacrifices of innocent children.”   


Yuuri nodded sagely. “Ah, yes, the human sacrifice, the essence of any good celebration of our Lord and Saviour, especially on the day of his birth. No wonder you Protestants will burn in the innermost circle of Hell for taking that out.”   


“By the way, we're passing the church right now,” Johannes said and pointed to the small, white-washed building.   


Yuuri looked towards it and then, half-instinctively and half-deliberately, made a cross.   


Johannes smiled. “Right behind you see part of the old castle – or rather, the stables of the old castle.”   


Yuuri had to crane his neck, but to no avail. All he saw was a slender, elegant building, put on something like a small stage, windows alight and not at all looking like a stable building.   


“Well, you'll see it tomorrow when the light is better,” Johannes amended, “but at least you've seen the Palais. Weissenbach lives there and he likes to invite the better-off part of the village there regularly. Behind it there's the park I've talked about.”   


The cab took yet another sharp turn to the left and they passed a few small three-sided farm estates, one right next to the other. Yuuri had seen quite a few of them on his way to Dresden. Several of his fellow chorus singers had actually grown up in such houses and had always described in loving detail the main house to the left hand and any mischief they would get up to in the barn that made up the middle building at the and of the yard or the smell of their grandmother's kitchen in the right-hand building that was, as custom prescribed, set aside for the elderly parents after a son took over the farm.   


Eleonora Awesfeld's house was not one of these farms; it wasn't even really part of the village, really, standing a bit aside, surrounded by fields at first and then by a large, snow-covered garden. The house itself was just as slender and elegant as the building Yuuri had seen a glimpse of before, although it undoubtedly was on a much smaller scale.   


“Welcome to my current place of residence,” Johannes laughed and waved.   


A rather portly man of middle age awaited them and took the reins the moment Johannes jumped off the cab. “Back at last?” he asked.   


“No way I'd risk Altona breaking her legs,” Johannes said. “Sorry to keep you waiting today, Thomas.”   


“Eh. I've waited inside and it was a good excuse to avoid Pastor Held tonight.” The man named Thomas laughed and then took a look at Yuuri. “The visitor from far east?”   


“Didn't know Dresden already counts as the Far East,” Johannes answered dryly. “This is Yuuri, my friend from the theatre. Yuuri, this is Thomas, the groom here. If a horse gives you trouble he will happily explain to you what you did wrong and how to do better next time.”   


Yuuri shook hands with the man – who may or may not have tried to break his fingers – and smiled. “It's probably best if I stay away from the horses, then, or you won't have any peace on Christmas over explaining to me over and over again that I am too afraid of horses and that that's why they don't like me.”   


“Eh,” Thomas scoffed, looking him up and down again, “nothing to be afraid of. Horses are like dogs, just bigger and probably dumber.” He shrugged and Yuuri had the sense that at least someone here had already formed their opinion on him and that it wasn't the most favourable.    


“The missus is awaiting you,” Thomas said, already turning the horses away, “and your sister's already complained that she's starving.”   


Johannes snorted. “I doubt she'll starve that quickly, but better not test it, right?” He laid a hand on Yuuri's shoulder. “Let's go.”   


Yuuri nodded and took his suitcase.    


Johannes raised an eyebrow. “You look like you're staying for weeks, what happened? Mr. Feltsman kicked you out? Plisetsky got on your nerves?”   


He laughed. “No and no, don't worry. I'm still at the theatre. People just thought to use me as delivery boy for your Christmas presents.”   


“So many? Wow, I'm popular, huh? From whom are they?”   


“Eh, just the usual gang, Plisetsky, our ladies, Johannes Erhardt – you know, only the people worth knowing anyways.”   


Johannes squeezed his shoulder so hard that it almost hurt. “Thank you. I...”   


When Yuuri turned to him he saw that Johannes shoulders were stiff as a board and even in the dim light that came from the windows he could see the sharp lines around his mouth. He lifted his hand and put it on Johannes' shoulder, but Johannes quickly shrugged it away.    


“I'm alright, really. Just...” Johannes shook his head. “It's good you are here.”   


“It's good to see you,” Yuuri replied.   


Johannes laughed. “Let's get inside, I think my ass is falling off.” He opened the door to the house and Yuuri walked in.   


The entrance hall was remarkably similar to the one Mrs. Eleonora's house in Dresden had, with dark wood panelling and richly coloured carpets. In broad daylight it would probably be less oppressive than it was now, with two big windows letting in the sun; the house in Dresden had been lacking those.   


The moment the door had made a sound there were steps and a girl of maybe fifteen appeared; Yuuri recognized her from the city house. Only that she now was not wearing the bright blue dress and the spotless apron Yuuri had come to associate her with, but a dress of dark green wool. She curtsied quickly and not too deep. “The missus and the miss and the little miss are in the dining room. Dinner is ready.”   
There was a hint of accusation in her voice.   


“Sorry to keep you all waiting, the road was a mess.” Johannes quickly got out of his coat and hung it up before taking Yuuri's. “We'll be there in a minute.”   


“I do hope so,” the girl grumbled and then went away.   


“It's quite informal here, you see,” Johannes smiled. “Anna is more responsible for Ella and for being company to Johanna and Eleonora these days. Took her a while to get used to it.” He pulled off his boots and took on a pair of comfortable looking, wool-lined slippers, offering another pair to Yuuri.    


They were so soft on his feet and so warm and he sighed in relief. “I think I forgot what my feet feel like.”   


Johannes chuckled. “Carriage rides in winter are one kind of hell in their own right.”   


“At least north of the alps.”   


Johannes led him through the corridor and into the dining room, The table was too big for five and maybe a toddler, so Yuuri supposed that they didn't have their everyday meals in here.   


It was brightly lit, candles and lamps burning everywhere, including a big advent wreath in the middle of the table.   


The moment they came in Mrs. Eleonora got up and came to them. “Ah, Mr. Katsuki! How good to see you.”   


Really? Yuuri had never had too much contact with her, but her delight seemed genuine. He took her hand and hinted at a kiss. “I'm very grateful for the invitation.” He walked to the table where Miss Johanna, not quite as willowy as Yuuri remembered her, was sitting, watching him with as critical an eye as ever when he offered her hand a kiss as well. “You look good, motherhood agrees with you.”   


“Better than pregnancy, for sure,” Johanna said, “I can eat again without vomiting right afterwards.”   


Miss Anna next to her seemed to bite back a gasp.   


“And occasionally Ella even lets me eat without starting to cry all of a sudden,” Miss Johanna continued, “Which reminds me, I am pretty hungry, can we please eat now?”   


Yuuri looked at the content of the bowls that were spread out, cold potato salad and long, thin pork sausages swimming in hot water and he had to remind himself that Mrs. Eleonora was Protestant to get over his disappointment. Even though he had never grown up with Christmas as the utmost important holiday in the church year, he was used to a somewhat more lavish feast on pretty much any holiday, Good Friday aside. He hoped that they would eat better on other holidays at least and if not, that Protestants really got rewarded with not having to deal with Purgatory. Even if that was the case, Yuuri was not entirely sure if it was really worth it.   


They sat down and folded their hands and Mrs. Eleonora looked around. “Well, we have all been to our respective churches and gave thanks for the last year with all it brought, so I'd say, Merry Christmas and enjoy your meal.”   


“Oh, thank God!” Miss Johanna grumbled and reached around to load potato salad and sausages on every plate.   


Miss Anna in the meantime got up and disappeared through a door, only to come back a few moments later with a tray that held five cups of thick, cut crystal glass in which a red liquid steamed with the heavy scent of alcohol, ginger and cinnamon.

She placed a cup in front of everyone. “Merry Christmas – you drink mulled wine, do you, Mr.-”   


“Katsuki.” Yuuri glanced to Mrs. Eleonora. “I suppose, Yuuri is fine around here too, if the mistress allows.”   


She nodded and lifted her cup to her lips. “Be my guest – well, you already are – Yuuri. Ah, wonderful, Anna, as always – you added some lemon this time?”   


“Lemon peel, yes,” Miss Anna confirmed, “Yuuri then, you drink mulled wine?”   


“I have a penchant for it, yes. Doesn't help that it is even better here than in Milan.” He took a sip for demonstration and then smiled at her while swallowing. The wine was a bit fruitier than what he knew from the Dresden Christmas markets or even Mrs. Hauber's advent Sunday treat to her tenants, maybe by virtue of the ominous lemon peel. It left a strong aftertaste of cinnamon in his mouth. “It's really good. Thank you.”   


Miss Anna smiled, satisfied that Yuuri's tastes were agreeable to her and turned her attention to her plate of potato salad.    


Yuuri did the same and thankfully, it was actually pretty good, with a little vinegar, some pickles, some spices and a dash of sour cream. Together with the sausages – very tender, with the skin giving only the slightest resistance to his teeth, only enough for him to feel this wonderful, satisfying crunch – it made for a rather filling meal, even after his long, hungry journey.   


They ate mostly in silence with only occasionally Mrs. Eleonora or Johannes asking about how things in Dresden and at the theatre were going, mostly related to singular persons, rather than general questions.   


“Plisetsky's still terrorizing the house, then?” Johannes ventured forth at some point.   


Yuuri took his time to chew down the spoonful of potato salad he had just put into his mouth and to thoughtfully look into the candlelight of the advent wreath. “Well, if you mean that he's still there, yes. Terrorizing – well, he's still as soft and smooth as an inverted needle pillow, but it's amazing what being in love does to your general disposition.”   


Johannes snorted. “Alright, now that's something I need to see.”   


Miss Johanna looked up in mild alarm. “Well, visiting Dresden would sure be nice when the roads are better,” she said, putting another sausage on her brother's plate, “and when Ella's a little older. Sometimes one does miss the city life, I have to admit.”   


Johannes smiled with more than just a little strain.   


“So, Yuuri,” Mrs. Eleonora said, smiling, “I said just now that we all were to church already, but I actually don't know about you – did you miss service to catch the carriage? In that case I am sure we all would gladly accompany you to the service tomorrow. Of course, it's not the same as what you know and...” She laughed. “I would have to speak to Pastor Held, but I am sure he would make an exception and allow a Catholic in.”   


Were Protestants really that strict about these things, Yuuri wondered; but then again there had been a minor scandal in his church community in summer when one of their members had married a Jewish woman with neither of them converting; their compromise had been to both observe the Sabbat and the Sunday mass together for a while until they had gotten so much ire from both communities that someday they had just left Dresden never to be seen again. It was saying something about the scale of it that Yuuri had actually noticed some of the alleged scandal since usually in Church and in regards to his fellow Dresden Catholics he much preferred to mind his own business.   


In any case, he could deal with not giving people yet another reason to stare at him.    


“Mrs. Eleonora, I am deeply touched that you worry so much for my soul,” he said.   


Mrs. Eleonora rolled her eyes.   


“No, I really do,” Yuuri continued, “but really, I was at mass this morning, so any spiritual matters should be taken care of.”   


“Glad to hear that.”   


“And imagine if I showed up in a protestant service all of a sudden?” He took a sip of his mulled wine. “Maybe God in Heaven doesn't care about our differences in the end, but it still would be rather confusing to Him to suddenly hear my voice from a very different place than He is used to, confessionally.”   


“I am very sure the Lord would very quickly sort it out, though,” Mrs. Eleonora said.   


“Maybe, but I am very positive I would have to confess attending a heretic service and then my poor confessor would die of shock, I fear.”   


Mrs. Eleonora giggled.   


Miss Anna snorted. “Are Catholic priests really that feeble-minded?”   


“Well, of course,” Yuuri answered, completely serious, “That's why they live in celibacy. Takes a lot less stamina than married life, I suppose.”   


“You're probably right,” Miss Johanna grinned, “let's just hope we will all be spared the troubles and trials of an officially married life.”   


Now that was surprising. Yuuri took in Miss Johanna anew. Her eyes were sparkling and the mulled wine had imbued a rosy colour in her cheeks. Yuuri had not been lying before; motherhood did agree with her and every bit of her body language spoke of ease and confidence and self-assurance.   


Yuuri sighed dramatically. “And here I hoped to someday live together with the one I love and build a life. Alas, apparently it shall not be.”   


“Which might be for the best if such a little thing like my opinion puts you off,” Miss Johanna laughed and finished her wine. “Oh dear, I think I'm stuffed.”   


“Same,” Johannes sighed, “Your potato salad is sheer witchcraft, dear sister mine.”   


“Give me a moment, I’ll get a digestive,” Miss Anna chirped and rushed off again.    


Mrs. Eleonora chuckled. “I fear I'll never quite get the maid out of her.”   


“If she enjoys it, let her do these little things,” Johannes said and lifted her hand to his lips.   


Miss Anna came back with her tray, this time bearing five small glasses of a very strong-smelling herbal liqueur of very dark, almost ink-black colour.   


Yuuri took the offered glass and sniffed at it.    


“Oh, please!” Miss Anna sighed, “Mister Eberhardt Schramka set it up, I watched him myself, he put all those nice herbs in and honey and a little and some grain spirit, it is really good!”   


“Well, if you say so.”   


“It is good,” Johanna chimed in. “It calmed my stomach down a lot when I wanted to vomit during the first few weeks after Ella was born. Tastes really nice, if you're fond of rosemary, which you should be, being Italian and all.”   


She had mellowed out, Yuuri thought, and considerably so. They had spent two hours in the same room and not one overly biting comment so far. It was almost as big a miracle as Plisetsky's transformation into an actual human being.   


“Well, we have eaten,” Johannes said now, “What would you say to presents?”   


“Not no,” Miss Johanna chirped. “I'll go and fetch Ella, she should be awake by now.” She got up and left.   


“I'll get my presents – I am sorry, I didn't know about there being another young miss in the household or I would have gotten something for you,” Yuuri said to Miss Anna, “as it is I can only offer a share of the gifts I got from mine and Johannes' colleagues.”   


Miss Anna made a face for a moment but quickly collected herself and smiled. “That is quite alright,” she said in a tone that had Yuuri resolve to give her the pick on the sweets he had gotten.   


“I’ll help you!” Johannes exclaimed, “Your suitcase is in your room, you need to see that one anyway, come on!”   


He led Yuuri up a rather creaking staircase and then along a thickly carpeted corridor. “How do you like it here?”   


“It's nice. The house is pretty. Your sister seems happy.”   


“She is. She's much like she was before her pregnancy. Country life is good for her and being away from that man even more.” Johannes pointed to several doors. “There's Eleonora's room, the next one is Johanna’s and Ella’s, Anna has her chamber in the attic, she made it pretty nice up there, I sleep in this one, your room is next door – here.” He swung open the door.   


Someone had prepared the room, put dim light to the lamps and made sure it was not too cold in here, even though it was a long shot from the comfortable warmth of the communal rooms downstairs.    


“Anna put a hot stone in your bed to warm it up,” Johannes said, “so be a bit careful later.” He went around and turned up the flame in a few of the lamps so Yuuri could take a look around.   


Bed, night stand, writing desk, chair, a shelf and a closet in case the occupant guest would be staying longer.    


From the window he had a wonderful view over the fields that shimmered in pale, silky white through the night.   


“It is really nice here. I can't wait to see it in daylight tomorrow.” He now went to his suitcase and took out the parcels that were the presents he had brought. Then he took the bags of sweets as well.   


Johannes shook his head. “You were not kidding when you said that it was mostly presents, huh?”   


“I am never kidding when it comes to presents,” Yuuri laughed. He found the parcel containing the book for Plisetsky and the small box with his gift for Viktor and carefully put them away.   


“What are these?” Johannes asked, peering over his shoulder.   


“Not much, just some stuff I'll deliver when I get back.” Yuuri turned to him and smiled. “This morning was a little too busy.”   


“Oh...” Johannes bit his lip. “You know, you could have brought her with you. Could have shared my room with me, your girlfriend has her own, it really-”   


“Couldn't get away,” Yuuri said. “But she wanted me to accept your invitation. Said it would do me good to get out to the countryside a little.”   


“Too bad. I'd like to meet her,” Johannes sighed, “but then again, I will at least at the wedding, right?”   


Yuuri raised an eyebrow.   


“I mean, your comment downstairs sounded an awfully lot like you've made up your mind or was that only for a joke?”   


Oh, yes. Yuuri quickly nodded. Then, since this probably didn't look too good, he shook his head. “No. I mean, yes. No, it was not a joke, yes I am serious. But, well, starting a life together costs money, so it will take a while longer, I fear.”   


“I see.” Johannes smiled. “But your mind is made up?”   


Yuuri nodded and now his mouth quivered and quirked up into a smile and then into a grin. “Yes, it is. Very much so.”   


Johannes grinned. “Now that's the best news I had all month. Let's go down, shall we? They'll be waiting.”   


The women were waiting in the dimly lit drawing room, with presents already set up underneath the Christmas tree; the candles on its branches flickered and had their light reflected by glass ornaments and tinsel. Several small stacks were waiting for them.   


Miss Johanna was sitting in a rocking chair, a baby in her arms that looked as chubby and cherubic and happy as any putto Yuuri had ever seen in any church.   


He went to her. “So this is Ella?”   


“Yes, she is.”   


The baby in her arms blinked at him and then yawned, turning her head away from Yuuri. She had a tuft of fine, dark hair on her head and tiny, tiny hands with incredibly fine fingers.   


She was adorable, at least as much as a pink, oversized frog in clothes could be.    


Yuuri still couldn't help but smile. “I think you'll have to grow a little more until you can use my present, sweetie.” With that he handed Miss Johanna two parcels.   


She unwrapped the smaller one first, finding a box of cherry drops. “Oh, thank you! I love these!” she exclaimed, face lighting up.   


“So I've been told,” Yuuri said, “Your brother suggested I'd treat you to a box to get you to like me.”   


“Must have been in summer then,” she giggled.  “Thank you. And Ella, look what the uncle brought for you!” She turned her daughter around again.   


The baby gurgled happily and pawed at the parcel that Miss Johanna held in front of her.   


Miss Anna, Mrs. Eleonora and Johannes came near and watched as she finally tore off a bit of the wrapping paper.   


Miss Johanna finally came to her help and together they unpacked a little wooden box containing a xylophone.   


“Oh, yes, this is wonderful!” Miss Johanna beamed up to him. “Wonderful! Ella, look!” She carefully lifted the beat stick and beat one of the metal plates.    


A soft note rang through the air.    


The little girl looked up at her mother, then to the xylophone and then giggled.   


“She loves it,” Johanna said. “Thank you.” She reached behind her. “And this is for you. Along with my apologies for my previous nastiness.”   


“Which is entirely appropriate,” Johannes chimed in, “Good for you.”   


“It's alright.” Yuuri smiled. “I've dealt with worse people. Still dealing with them, actually.” He now finally took the parcel. It was slightly soft and pliable in his hands, so it was textile.   


Carefully he unwrapped it and out fell first a pullover, knitted from soft, deep-blue wool and then a book.   


Miss Johanna smiled. “Johannes was consulted for the measurements. I think it might be a little too big, even. And he told me you look best in dark blue.”   


“People seem to be on a consensus in that regard,” Yuuri sighed and ran a hand over it. Yes, this would keep him so wonderfully warm. “Thank you, it is lovely. I can't imagine how long you must have worked on this.”   


“Ella sleeps a lot by now, so I have a lot of time at my hands again.” Miss Johanna smiled. “And you found the other part, I take it?”   


Yuuri lifted up the book. The cover illustration showed a maiden arising from a river. “ _Undine_ ,” Yuuri read out, _“a magical fairy tale_ by Friedrich de la Motte Fouqué.”  He looked up. “Thank you.”   


“You like that opera a lot, I hear and Fouqué was a good friend of Hoffmann's, so maybe this is to your liking,” Miss Johanna mumbled. “Anna helped me think of it.”   


Yuuri was honestly touched by this. Miss Johanna had clearly spent a lot of time thinking about what to give him and that in itself filled him up with warmth.  “It is wonderful, thank you. Thank you so much, it... thank you.”   


Miss Johanna nodded. “Well. Eleonora, Anna.” she reached around her chair again and handed out two more parcels.

These were books as well and apparently well received, too. When Yuuri craned his neck, he could see that both of them were French and apparently by one Viktor Hugo.

Johannes on the other hand got another pullover – dark grey this time – and sheet music which pleased him to no end.

Yuuri handed out his packets of sweets and spread his own presents from earlier that day in front of Miss Anna. “Would be mean to not present you with anything, so... it is not much, but please, have your pick.”

“That's no necessary, really!” Miss Anna protested, but she was eyeing the sweets spread in front of her.   
“Please, I insist.”   


Miss Anna finally nodded and then took a box of liquorice. “Thank you. That is really kind of you.”   
In return he got a small bag of cookies from her.   


Mrs. Eleonora bequeathed him with a bit more of home crafted woollen clothing, this time in the form of two pairs of socks and one pair of mittens.    


“Thank you, Madame,” he said and bent down to kiss her hand as she offered it to him.    


In return she was immensely pleased with the lemon bonbons he had gotten her.   


Johannes on the other hand had gone in the same literary direction as his sister. Goethe's _Young Werther_ was exchanged for an edition of Friedrich Schiller's essays and the presents Yuuri had been asked to deliver.   


Johannes shook his head as he looked at the small mountain of sweets. “These guys are crazy,” he declared, “utterly crazy and...” And with that he turned to Yuuri and hugged him very, very tightly. “I miss them all,” he whispered and Yuuri wrapped his arms around him. “I miss you all so much, you don't know...”   


“We miss you too. And we all hope you're happy here,” he whispered back, carefully running a hand over Johannes' back. “You are happy here, aren't you?”   


“I am, I really am, really, but... it's just…” Johannes breathed heavily against Yuuri's neck. Then he removed himself from him again. “Thank you. And… please tell them I miss them.”   


Yuuri smiled. “I will. And we miss you too, I think you would make life a lot more bearable.”   


“Theatre gossip! I demand the latest stories.” Mrs Eleonora chirped and came closer, “Yuuri, please, do speak up, we are all burning to hear what has happened in Dresden.”

Miss Anna went to fetch some more mulled wine and Yuuri waited until he had his mug in his hands before he said, “Well, there’s not much to say. Mr. Wagner is still in office. Doesn’t look like he’ll be leaving soon either.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Eleonora said.

“Oh.” Johannes sighed. And then he added, “well, I suppose there goes any chance of me returning.” And strangely enough he was smiling, very soft, very gentle and actually not at all unhappy. “At least not to the Royal Court Theatre.”

“Maybe Leipzig,” Mrs. Eleonora suggested, “Or we could move to Vienna.”

“I've never been there,” Johannes said. “Would be lovely.” 

“It's a bigger city than Dresden for sure,” she sighed. “Johanna, what would you say?”

“It would be nice, yes,” Miss Johanna said, rocking her baby a little, but not saying any more.

There was more mulled wine. More talking.

More cooing over the baby.

As the evening went on there was more open affection between Johannes and Mrs. Eleonora which made Yuuri inordinately happy.

The Christmas tree illuminated the room, the air was scented by sugar and spices and wine. And outside the silent, silent white world of winter. 

Yes, this kind of Christmas was very much to Yuuri's liking.

 

However, as he was to find out, quiet and intimate get-togethers were a thing for Christmas Eve.    
December 25 th , however, was something of a communal occasion, an information he acquired over breakfast.

“I am sure Johannes told you about the owner of the estate of Zabeltitz, Free Lord of Weissenfels, right?” Mrs. Eleonora hummed while Yuuri was enjoying his coffee – actual, real coffee, he almost couldn't believe it. Even less he could believe that Johannes and Miss Johanna would rather go out riding in the morning than enjoy this taste of heaven.

“He had, yes,” Yuuri answered, although truthfully, he didn't remember much of what Johannes had said.

“Well, he loves to use such holidays for social gatherings and he loves to invite those in the village who have some modicum of influence.” Mrs. Eleonora took a spoonful of porridge as she spoke. “Always a dreadfully boring business, that's why I’ve always preferred to live in the city, but well. I am invited. Of course, Johannes as well and I am sure the people of Zabeltitz would love to have some more of the big city flavour in their midst.”

“So, I am to attend?” Yuuri asked.

“It would be most desired. And it is just an informal little Christmas gathering. So don't worry about clothes.”

“I came in my Sunday best yesterday,” Yuuri said, “and I have two clean shirts with me, too.”

“Wonderful!” Mrs. Eleonora clapped her hands and then turned to Miss Anna. “Would you be a dear and brush Yuuri's jacket out before we leave?”

“Of course, madam,” Miss Anna said while she was perfectly content to busy herself with her own coffee.

“Miss Johanna won't be with us, though?” Yuuri asked.

“Well...” Mrs. Eleonora sighed, “there is no denying that Johanna is the mother of the baby present here and there is no denying that she is unmarried, so I am not sure how well polite society – or what counts as it around here – would be too kind to her.”

“Is she having any trouble here?” Yuuri asked.

“No, not at all, the people here are pretty good,” Mrs. Eleonora answered, “They mind their own business, at least most of the time, and show the proper respect. Johanna is doing fine here, people have even started liking her, but well – polite society.”

“Polite society,” Yuuri agreed.

“And Johanna has neither the bite nor the position to not give a damn about it,” Mrs. Eleonora continued, “I could get away with a little more than her, simply because I have more money and know more important people, but that's the unfairness of life.”

“A child out of wedlock would still spell a lot of trouble for you, Madam,” Miss Anna commented.

“It would spell more trouble for you and it spells more trouble for Johanna than for me. I am in an independent position in life and I have money.” She shook her head. “Poor girl should have never trusted the word of a wealthy man to marry her eventually, that never ends well and now look at her.”

Yuuri took a sip of his coffee. “She loves the child, though, and she seems happy.”

“And imagine the life Ella will have, being a bastard. Her life choices will be quite limited and she’d have to accumulate a good bit of wealth, beauty and charisma to gloss over the circumstances of her birth and get on in even bourgeois society. Let’s hope she has some artistic talent to help her make her way.”

Yuuri finished his coffee. “So, when are we leaving?”

“We are to be over for tea, so be a dear and be ready at three.”

“Alright.” Yuuri took a deep breath. “Three o’clock then.”   


  
Three o’clock came and went and when it did Yuuri behaved like a good guestby  indeed accompanying Mrs. Eleonora and Johannes. 

The short walk through the village revealed an interesting mix of full-stone houses and quite a few half-timbered ones, with the time-blackened wood of the beams offering a sharp contrast to the whitewashed clay dressing on the stone. They were impeccable, probably belonging to the better-off residents, maybe a grocer or some craftsmen. There were not even a handful of them.

Zabeltitz was a clean, neat place, but only a fool would have mistaken it for a wealthy one.

At the very least, Yuuri mused, that meant that this get-together would be a rather small affair.

Which was probably for the best, too, Yuuri allowed the thought to continue; the Palais had looked a lot more impressive last night, in the darkness with all its windows brightly lit.

In broad daylight it was – well, it was pretty, at least Yuuri could give it that, coloured in soft, tawny-gold, three stories high and eleven broad windows wide, standing a little elevated on a swinging bridge over a small river.

The stable building on the opposing side was a good deal bigger than the Palais, its bright white walls and dark, high roof giving it the appearance of a typical castle of the area here.

“The horses must live a pretty good life here,” he remarked. 

“The stables are only partially used as such these days,” Mrs. Eleonora explained, “the back-buildings by now are containing living accommodations for some of the outdoor staff and a few of his own land workers – and well, considering the size of the stables you can imagine how impressive the castle was that came with it.”

Yuuri glanced over to the stable buildings, then to the Palais in front of him. “I imagine the costs for heating the place have been cut drastically.”

“That's one way to put it. I imagine it is a lot cheaper in the upkeep in general. Easier to maintain, too. See, one of the former holders – I think it was one of the Prince Electors of Saxony - even had put up this magnificent castle, then died before he could finish and it took years before work continued . By then it turned out that the revenue of the estate couldn't cover the cost, so the holder tried to push it off on someone else who might be able to afford it. That kind of person wasn't found for a while, I guess. In any case, the castle was rotting all by itself in peaceful, mouldery silence until finally someone was found who took over, tore the old castle down and built this little thing here.” She pointed to the palais that looked down on them like a very haughty young society beauty, all decked out and gleaming.

Nonetheless, the building exuded warmth due to the candle-lit, shimmering windows.   


They walked up the soft slope of the elegantly swung bridge and Yuuri looked around, finding thick, old trees, their bare branches covered in snow, reaching out like arms of a devotee in prayer, willows bent over as if they were carrying the weight of the world, branches like hair falling over the face of a weeping woman, hedges, well-groomed and regular, looking like pillows under their thick layers of snow.

Yuuri's gaze wandered over the stream that – under a thick layer of ice – ran on and on and on and on, under another small bridge and then still on and on and on, he supposed, through a wood, through the country and then away, away, away, away...   


The big front door opened and a gust of warm air met his face, snapping him out of his musings.   


A middle-aged, already balding man in a black-and-white suit took them in, first Mrs. Eleonora and then Johannes and Yuuri. “Mrs. Awesfeld, what a pleasure.” He bowed deeply and let them in. “The Master is in the drawing room.”

Mrs. Eleonora smiled and bowed her head just a little bit while Johannes helped her out of her coat. “Thank you. No need to trouble yourself, I know the way.”

“Of course.” The man bowed and Mrs. Eleonora led them upstairs through a bright, breezy stairway and along an equally bright, high corridor; when Yuuri looked out of the windows he had a good view on the church, then the stable building and a chestnut-lined alleyway, connecting the Palais to the main village and then – on the other side of the building – a first glimpse of an artificial pond, right at the door that was covered in ice.   


The area around it was lined with hedges, but Yuuri already could spot yet another pond and trees and in a few nooks in the hedges he spotted statues.   


“It's pretty, right?” Johannes asked.   


“Yes, it is. Quiet too, I imagine.”   


“Mostly.” Johannes lowered his voice. “His most generous Lordship doesn't like people on his playground.”   


He was not quiet enough to be not heard by Mrs. Eleonora, who shot him a disapproving glance.   


“In any case, it is a nice spot to walk through. Can imagine it's good for thinking, too,” Johannes sighed. “so much space and silence to fill with your thoughts and ideas.”    


“Hm…” Yuuri nodded thoughtfully. “I think one needs both the quiet to think and work as well as being with other people to get stuff done. And of course the will and ability, so don't expect me to be all artistic or philosophical someday.”   


“You're a singer,” Mrs. Eleonora pointed out while she continued to lead them on. The corridors were surprisingly long. “Last time I checked music is a form of art.”   


Yuuri shrugged. “Or a craft, honestly.”   


They reached a door and Mrs. Eleonora opened it. “I hear there is a Christmas gathering going somewhere here?”   


From inside Yuuri heard a few voices crying out in delight.   


“She's so good at smiling in polite society,” Johannes sighed fondly, “she would be great as something like a public spokesperson for-”   


“And look!” A woman called out to them, “the visitor you mentioned? Mr. Ebner, how nice to see you!”   


Johannes let Yuuri get inside first. “Pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Kühn.”   


The woman - young and quite portly, with fleshy, red cheeks - came up to them and Yuuri offered her the obligatory hand kiss.   


“Linda!” a man called and, chuckling, the woman left again.   


Mrs Eleonora shook her head. “Some people just have no manners.” She gestured for Yuuri and Johannes to come closer.   


“Mr. Ebert,” A man apparently in his late forties offered his hand to Johannes. “Nice to see you.” He then looked to Yuuri. “Our visitor from the far east, I take?”   


“Yuuri Katsuki, yes. From Japan, with an extended stop in Italy.”   


“Ah yes, how nice.” But the man – their host, Yuuri assumed, since Mrs. Eleonora hadn't introduced them both to each other nodded and smiled. “Well, now that we are here, how about tea?”   


So either the decision had been made to treat him as if he was familiar with everyone in the room, by virtue of knowing Mrs. Eleonora, or to consider him not important enough to be introduced at everything.   


Aside of Mrs. Eleonora there were only five other guests present anyways, one of them the much-mentioned Pastor Held and Mr. and Mrs. Kühn, who were grocers in the village. The other couple – Haase by name – ran the resident bakery, with a brother of Mrs. Haase being the one miller for five villages to go to, which probably meant that they were all moderately wealthy.   


Most questions were politely concerned about life in Dresden and how Yuuri liked it here, asked over very fine tea and thick slices of stollen.   
So, the early hour and the according lack of alcohol aside, it was not much different from any social gathering he had to attend in Dresden.   


And so far he had not been asked to sing. Nor had anyone commented too much on him being foreign.   


“Well,” Pastor Held said, “pardon my ignorance, Mr. Katsuki, but what would be the religion the people in Japan adhere to?”   


“I forgive you yours if you forgive mine,” Yuuri said, “See, I have no memory of this country since I grew up in Italy.”

“I see. But how likely do you think your people to be Christian?” Pastor Held continued. 

“Given the proximity to China and the distance to any Christian country?” Yuuri shrugged and took a sip of his tea. “Not very likely.”

“And you are-”

“Again,” Yuuri sighed, “I grew up in Italy. Being Catholic is almost a given, I suppose.”

“The question would be whether you truly are a Christian,” Pastor Held said and everyone on the table groaned.

“Please, Gerhard,” sighed Free Lord of Weissenfels, “I hardly have the stomach for theological nit-picking on a good day, why would you expect me to bear with it on Christmas?”

“Oh, I do not doubt Catholicism to be Christianity,” Pastor Held said, “they follow the Holy Scripture – or so they say – they have the Sacraments – a few more than necessary, maybe – and they believe in the salvation through our Lord Christ, so that's not up for debate today.”

“Well, thank goodness!” the Free Lord said.

“My question was more on a natural science bent. See, Mr. Katsuki, for the Jews the religion you will adhere to is a matter of parenthood. If your mother is Jewish, you are Jewish too, if I recall correctly – we don't have any Jews in Zabeltitz I could consult on that matter, so forgive me any inaccuracies.”

“I'm not overly familiar with their culture either,” Yuuri said, “but I fail to see where you're going with it.”

Around the table something like groaning arose.

Mrs. Eleonora closed her eyes, but Yuuri could see her rolling them nonetheless.

“Well, if one believes that this is a factor, I wonder whether you actually can ever become a true Christian, given your descent from pagans. Highly cultured pagans, but pagans nonetheless.”

“Are you implying missionaries are risking their lives for nothing when they go improving the lives of countless barbarians and bringing them to God?” Mrs. Eleonora asked dryly.

“Nothing of the sort. But I wonder.”

“Well, we all know heathens go to hell,” Yuuri said. “If I find myself in purgatory – or even heaven, if we go with your doctrine, then we have our answer. If I end up in hell we can still debate whether it is due to the place I was born in or due to my Catholicism.”

The matter was dropped and they drank their tea, only occasionally pestering Yuuri about whether he really didn't know anything at all about Japan and whether he really didn't speak one word of Japanese.    
Salvation came when tea time was over and the Free Lord invited them to a little stroll in his park.

Their whole party got up at once and followed Free Lord downstairs and outside.

Not for the first time Yuuri noted something rather peculiar about the sunlight in Germany; it seemed to get more intense and concentrated in colour when it lost its warmth. Summer days around might be hot and blindingly bright, but the winter days were bursting with intense colour one wouldn’t have expected from a season that was mainly defined by being cold and icy. 

Maybe it was the snow. Maybe it was the fact that it reflected the light and that colour always seemed more intense when playing off of something pale.

Maybe it was the biting cold. Maybe its tendency to nip and nibble on your cheeks and nose heightened one’s senses a little?

Under its ice the pond right in front of the Palais was of a dark, greenish hue, like a chunk of molten bottle glass; Yuuri wondered if it would hold a person without breaking.

“The park was designed as one piece with the Palais,” the Free Lord explained, “you see the symmetry?”

Yuuri did see the symmetry. “16th century?” he guessed.

Free Lord Weissenfels nodded. “lt was designed by Mr. Johann Christoph Knöffel. Genius in that area.”

He sounded proud, even though Yuuri had no idea who that would be. Someone important, for sure. Probably someone who had been good at designing gardens.

The park would point to that; even now, a good few decades after that style had fallen out of fashion it was a joy to walk these paths. As they walked up the length of the pond Yuuri, through the snow-covered hedges, could see a sandstone statue in the middle of a now-dry fountain, showing two gigantic toddlers playing. 

It had the shape of a big mirror he realized as they reached the upper end and looked back to the palais. 

“Do you have sights like this in Milan?” Mrs. Kühn asked.

Yuuri hummed. “The Parco Sempione maybe. Of course, with a lot less rigid lines. And in winter a lot less snow.”

Mrs. Kühn apparently realized that Milan was a rather big city, while Zabeltitz was a very small village and that her question had been - while not ill-intended - a bit silly. She fell into silence.

When Yuuri looked ahead he found yet another pond that was just as artificial as the first one, this time a round one with a long, thin line added to the far end, giving it a bit the look of a bottle. 

It too was frozen over, but the rim was seamed with dry, yellow stalks of reed that stood in stark, sharp relief to the soft snow and the clear blue sky. It had something like a little house in the middle around which a few ducks were gathering.

Johannes put hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go there,” he offered, directing Yuuri on the path that led around the pond.

They parted from the group and Yuuri felt a wave of gratitude wash over him. 

Johannes must have seen it on his face; he smiled. “Yes, the joys of life in the countryside. Welcome to my life.”

“You don’t seem to mind too much, though,” Yuuri said.

“Not really, no. I found work here, giving singing and piano lessons. Violin too, but I have only one student so far. For singing, Mrs. Kühn is my most ardent disciple, if not my most talented. For that I have more hopes in the children in Görzig, one village over. They’re a pretty nice church choir.”

“They pay you well?” Yuuri asked. 

Johannes shrugged. “Well enough, I suppose. It’s less than what I’ve earned in Dresden, but around here you do need a lot less, so it evens out. If it was only me, it would be enough. But it’s good that Eleonora doesn’t have to depend on me. She likes the life she’s having now.” He sighed. “Which is why we’re not married yet. She’d lose a good chunk of her money if she remarried, so right now we’re trying to deposit it in a safe manner. Land and such. To be honest, it’s her who deals with it the most, she knows more about it than me. But I’m glad I have my income. I’d hate to leech off on her.”

In silence they walked for a bit.

Yuuri listened to their steps making only the softest of crunching noises in the snow, he listened to the cries of a few birds, to the soft creaking of a branch as it was moved by a breeze, the whisper as the snow that had rested on it fell down. 

As they were up on the mouthpiece of the bottleneck Yuuri could look back over the path again to the palais that looked up just over the stalks of reed as if growing from them.

And when he turned, just behind a small wall – not higher than his calves – and a stream, there was a field, lined with trees, untouched, unchanged, unreal.

“You're happy here?”

“Quite. I miss Dresden sometimes, especially when Mrs. Kühn thinks herself so high cultured and...” He smiled wistfully. “And I miss you all, too. But yes. I am happy here. You know, it's peaceful here and Nora and I can quiet and calm down and collect ourselves and – well, the air is so much better here.”

Yes, it was. Not so clogged up by too many people on too little space, there were probably not entire streets here bathed in the smell of beer and piss and vomit. And he already had experienced how quiet the night was out here. 

Looking over the park again he nodded. “Yes, it's lovely here. I think I could live here too, later. Maybe after retiring from stage.”

“Hopefully a long time til then, right?”

Yuuri sighed. “Hopefully. Just not sure whether I should stay in Dresden to achieve it. A long time til my retirement, I mean.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

Yuuri sighed again. “Well, for once – I think things will be very heated in Dresden. Call it a hunch.” He made a face. “It's... I don't think I want to be around for that, you know.”

“I think I do. March was awful, I remember,” Johannes said. “People are still talking about getting up again?”

“I wonder if they ever stopped. Plisetsky is pretty involved in it, I suppose.”

“And at the same time he has mellowed out?”

Yuuri smiled. “The power of young love, I think.” He looked ahead. “But that is not the only thing. You know, Mr. Wagner has not gotten any nicer since you've been gone. He's... urgh. You know how it was.”

“Yes. Still as bad?”

“Sometimes worse,” Yuuri said while they walked down the bottleneck again on the other side and then passed a hedge and the statue of a woman. Maybe the goddess Diana, maybe just a pretty woman, Yuuri could admire her wondering profile either way. “I have to fight for each solo so hard that I've hardly got any energy left for working on it. And when I only ever get small roles – maybe I'd be better off somewhere else. Maybe in Leipzig. Maybe up in Berlin or Hamburg. Or even back in Milan, that's my main thought, to be honest.”

“Back in Italy?” Johannes made a face. “Well...”

“As I said. This place is wonderful for whenever the day comes that I wish to enjoy my remaining days in peace and quiet.”

They had reached yet another pond and this one actually seemed to be somewhat less artificial than the other two, with an irregular shape and bumpily sloping shores; it also had a little island, a small fleck of land poking out of the water, connected to the shore by a small, arched bridge. This pond too had a small duck house and the local water fowl seemed to like their abode pretty well.

Willows bent over the water, their branches dipping into it, frozen and stuck there until spring. 

Yuuri took a deep breath and enjoyed the clear, cold air.

“And your girl?”

“That's the thing. I mean, I don't think about marriage, because...”

“Money?”

Yuuri sighed. “Yes, that too. But you know, that aside – I really want a life together with her.” The her came out so easy by now, Yuuri didn't even notice anymore. “It's kind of nice to have at least that to be sure about when everything else is...” He sighed once more. “But yes, even if I'd leave for Milan, leaving Dresden would be a little sad. I really like it there. I mean, recent developments aside. And it was a good thing to go there.”

“Hm.” Johannes nodded. “You've changed quite a bit since May. For the better, I think.”

“Thank you.”

There was an awkward silence as they walked over the bridge and onto the island. 

Johannes watched a few ducks waddle over the ice. “Man,” he sighed, “I really need to go to Dresden, just to see Plisetsky being nice and kind and in love and awkward.”

Yuui laughed. “Nice and kind are still too strong words for him, but... yeah, he has mellowed out.”

“Must be quite a girl,” Johannes said.

What was Yuuri to say to that? There was nothing, so he left it with a soft, “Hm.”

“You met her?”

“Yes.”

“How is...” Johannes paused and then continued, “how is- she?”

Yuuri looked at him. “Well...” How much could he say? “Good character.”

Johannes was still watching the ducks. “Well,” he finally said, “always thought he was too pretty to ever become a proper man.”

Yuuri had a very short list of people he would introduce Viktor to if he ever got the chance. That list was headed by Mila and Sara, then Celestino and then filled out by cautious notions of his friends. 

Johannes had just erased himself from the list and Yuuri had to employ everything he knew about acting to keep his face even. It did hurt. Worst was that he couldn't even say anything.

He looked around, taking in the way a young lime tree with smooth, greenish-brown bark reached out to the sky with its branches, just at the edge of the water, right next to them.

“Well,” Johannes said at last, “if he's less bitchy, it's probably not too bad. I guess.”

Maybe someday, Yuuri thought, maybe someday he could work towards Johannes meeting Viktor without it ending their friendship. Maybe.

“What about Miss Johanna?”

“She met a writer. Was on the way to Leipzig and stopped here and they got talking. They are writing letters now. He likes her style. Encourages her to do something with it. Nora and I hope he has interest in her as well, additionally to her writing. Would be good for her. If she has a chance to marry, I mean.”

Yuuri nodded. “I suppose she has a lot more chances these days, since she's not so stressed out anymore.”

“It might even make up for Ella being in the picture,” Johannes said. He rummaged through his pockets and found a stone he threw over the ice.

It flew and bounced off with a clear, but low and thick sound.

“Thick enough to skate on,” Johannes said. “Nice. Johanna likes it here and she likes skating.”

“I've been on the Elbe, lately,” Yuuri said, “I've never skated before. It's fun.”

Johannes nodded eagerly. “It is. When you figured out your balance it's almost like flying.” 

Yuuri looked over the ice, to the trees, the paths, the hedges all covered in thick layers of snow, and once more Viktor came to his mind. He would enjoy this place, the quietness, the way nature was bleeding into the rigid, artistic lines of the park.

He would enjoy the biting cold air here, the taste of freshly fallen snow it carried and he would most definitely enjoy it in spring when the trees would be dusted over by the freshest, sweetest green and when flowers would spring up both independently. He would enjoy the heat and the lush colours in summer and the way sunlight would speckle through the foliage of the trees.

And in fall he would admire the rich reds and yellows Yuuri was sure this place would display.

He would love it here.

Someday, maybe they could be here together.

Right now, however, Yuuri didn't want to show Viktor this place. Right now all he wanted was to be with him. Nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... yeah, that's my birthplace. I like lovingy roasting it, it deserves it.  
> What deserves all the love is the park, that one is beautiful, especially in winter. If you need convincing, check out my instagram: https://www.instagram.com/p/BSCEioTg72J/
> 
> Thank you again for reading. Right now I'm already busy writing both some bonus storys and... and the last chapter. I can't believe it. Please stick with me til the very end.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya, here we are again and Christmas is now officially over. Let's hope that the German winter agrees with this assessment and finally leaves us alone. It's late March and last week it snowed. It. SNOWED. What. The. Hell.
> 
> In any case - have some snowy Saxonian villages and some fluff.

Chapter 26

 

They reunited with the others shortly afterwards and they went back inside for more tea, but no stollen. Instead there was more talking, more laughing and finally – Yuuri had been waiting for this all afternoon, honestly – a demand for the resident musicians to entertain them.

So they entertained. They sang.

Their small audience cheered.

Mr. and Mrs. Kühn complimented Johannes' pathos and how clear Yuuri's pronunciation of all these hard German words were, how his accent all but disappeared when he was singing and did all people in Japan sound like that?

Yuuri could only smile and answer, “I have no idea, Mr. Kühn, but Milanese people sound like that when they practise singing in German, if that's any help?”

He managed, he got through, he finished the day and fell into bed like a dead man, although he suspected the loads and loads of mulled wine had something to do with it as well.

In any case he slept like a stone and the next day he managed to smile and behave throughout any visit Mrs. Eleonora received.

He was a good guest after all.

As a good guest he smiled until the very moment Johannes – having driven him to Großenhain – saw the postal carriage to Dresden roll off, Yuuri in it, and waved after him.  
Only then, only when he knew his friend wouldn't see him, Yuuri could lean back and draw a long, shaky breath of relief. It was over.

Christmas Eve had been nice, but Christmas Day had been so draining that Yuuri didn't even remember parts of it.

A man was sitting opposite of him, though, so he still had to hold it together, had to breathe even, had to bear the curious looks, had to smile, had to be polite, had to not mind, had to be – not a person, essentially. He had to accept, to smile in order to be polite, to not show any annoyance, he had to be a doll.

He tried his best to ignore any curious stares from his fellow passenger, looked out of the window and waited, waited, waited for the carriage to arrive in Dresden at the Postplatz.

When it did – sun already setting, sky quickly darkening – Yuuri jumped off at once.

“Whoa!” Plisetsky called.

Yuuri had never been so happy to see him. “Hey! And – once again, merry Christmas!”

The boy grinned. “It's been two days, I think we can leave the Christmas greetings out by now.” Still, he gave Yuuri a quick hug. “Hope you enjoyed your holiday.”

“Parts of it,” Yuuri laughed. “It's a pretty place. Too quiet for you, I guess, and too many pigeon-holed people too, since I met at least two of them.”

“Too many,” Plisetsky agreed.

“How's Viktor?”

“Still alive. Misses you and tries very hard not to show it because you were away for only a day and a half at most, but he's holding up well. Telling himself that you two often don't see each other every day.”

“Dramatic as always, huh?” Yuuri sighed. “Well, at least he's feeling somewhat well then. I got something for you. Didn't get to give it to you on Christmas Eve, sorry.”

“Presents!” Plisetsky's eyes lit up. “What is it?”

Yuuri suppressed a grin. “You'll see when we're back.”

“I wanna see now.”

“I won't rummage through my whole luggage in the middle of the street, so please have a few more minutes’ patience.”

“Urgh.” Plisetsky sighed. “Fine.” After a while he asked, “Is it something good?”

“No,” Yuuri answered, “I got you a recommendation to the tsar, so he may take you on as his royal court singer.”

Plisetsky snorted, but thankfully got the hint and did not dig deeper. “How's Johannes?”

“Happy.”

“That's nice.”

“Yes. He sends his regards.”

“Send mine back when you write to him next time.”

“I will.” Yuuri looked down the street, so crowded, so loud, so much a city street and he already missed the clean air, the quiet and the glistening snow of Zabeltitz. But also he was so glad to be here again. It was so right to be back here.

The theatre laid there in festive darkness, like a large, sleeping animal and they snuck in through a side entrance and then down the corridor.

“Viktor knows I'm coming, I hope?” Yuuri asked as the lights of the cave came closer and closer.

Plisetsky grinned. “Yes. Was excited the whole afternoon, I think-”

“Yuuri!”

Yuuri almost stumbled as Viktor came almost running towards him and wrapped his arms tightly around him as if he hadn't seen him in weeks. “Merry Christmas! And I'm so happy you are back!”

Yuuri hugged him back and leaned against him.

Yes. That was good. That was right. That was how things should be. He took a deep breath and let Viktor's scent wash over him, enwrap him and bring him finally, completely back home here. Even better than clear, fresh countryside winter air.

“Merry Christmas, love,” he whispered. “I missed you too.”

“Good to hear.” Viktor now looked at him more closely, eye darting up and down his face. “Good, nobody has eaten you, nobody was overtly mean to you, you are back safe and sound.”

“As if people would eat me. I don't taste good.”

Viktor chuckled. “I beg to differ.”

Plisetsky cleared his throat. “Let's just all pretend I didn't hear that, yes? Please? And let's remember that I am in the room and would like to keep my sanity.”

“Thank you for fetching him, Yura,” Viktor said. “I made some tea and Yakov brought cookies this morning. Apparently he worries that Madame Barnosk tries to poison him and would like people to sample her baked goods before he takes any.”

Plisetsky laughed and they walked over to the chaise lounge. Lazing around with tea and cookies was a wonderful plan, Yuuri thought as he took the cup Viktor gave him, a big, thick-walled thing that rested comfortably sturdy in his hands. “Thank you.”

“Presents!” Plisetky called.

Yuuri sighed. “In my suitcase. The big one, that's for you.”

Plisetsky dashed off to the suitcase, opened it and rummaged through its contents for a bit.

Yuuri shook his head. “How old is he again, seven or seventeen?”

“I sometimes feel tempted to say three, even,” Viktor answered and kissed his temple.

Plisetsky had found his present and was now carefully unwrapping it. “Tomcat Murr,” he read out the title, then opened it and read the first page. At last he lifted his head, grinning. “Thank you! It's great!”

“May he inspire you to look at the world with kindly eyes,” Yuuri answered.

Plisetsky grinned. “Don't get your hopes up.”

He plopped down onto the floor, stuck his nose into the book and went on reading for a little, while Yuuri and Viktor cuddled closer together.

After a while, though, he closed the book and looked up to them. “Alright. I'll take my leave, yes?”

“Already?” Viktor asked, “You didn't even finish your tea.”

“Oh. Right. So I didn't.” Plisetsky quickly grabbed his mug and emptied it in one swig. “Alright. See you, preferably when you're not busy melting together or something. Thanks for the book, Katsuki!”

“You're welcome.”

With another grin Plisetsky turned and left them alone.

Viktor's arms tightened around Yuuri and he started breathing little kisses into his neck. “Hm. I missed you. I missed you so much.”

The kisses were warm and Viktor's breath tickled over Yuuri's skin, the sensation running down his spine. “I was gone for a day,” he said, leaning into the touch. “We often don't see each other for that long.”

“I know.” Viktor still breathed down his spine. “I know, dear, I know. But this was different, somehow. Maybe because you were gone, actually, really gone. I tried to tell myself the same, you know, but it did not really work all that well. I still missed you so terribly much. It almost drove me crazy.” The kisses slowly wandered around Yuuri's neck now and up to his jaw. “I really missed you.”

Yuuri gently shifted his weight in Viktor's arms and his thigh brushed against something hard. “I notice.”

“I do not think that shows adequately how much I did.”

Yuuri turned in his arms and ran a hand through his hair. “Is that so – well, we can't have that, can we?” He leaned against Viktor's brow and then into a soft, breathy kiss. “Why don't you show me?”

Viktor gladly did; maybe he had just been waiting for that invitation and he had probably been impatient about it too. He didn't even bother with undressing too much, letting his hands sneak under Yuuri's shirt the moment he had the chance and savouring the feeling of his skin without removing the fabric.

And admittedly, Yuuri was no different, being perfectly content with being freed from his trousers just enough to give Viktor the access he needed while reaching down between his legs.

His touch was rewarded with a soft shudder; the moment he had buttoned down Viktor's trousers and touched him again Viktor shuddered once more, moaned and then spilled over Yuuri's hand.

“Oh.” Yuuri looked at the sticky substance covering his fingers. “That's either a tremendous compliment or very strong evidence of how much you did miss me.”

Viktor looked at it and then groaned. “Oh dear... I...” He cleared his throat. “I think you know me well enough to know that this usually does not happen.”

Yuuri chuckled. “I know. And it's very much alright. We have time later for more in-depth proofs of how much you missed me.”

At the very least, an instant orgasm apparently meant that Viktor's head cleared just as instantly. “Sure?” he purred, wrapping his fingers around Yuuri's erection. “I think you would not like to wait that long.”

“Hm. Maybe-”

Viktor moved his hands and Yuuri's eyesight went blank for a moment.

He came back quickly, relieved from a load he hadn't even known he was carrying; but he was not filled, not sated. Just relieved, but for the moment it was alright.

“I missed you just as much, it seems,” he chuckled, snuggling a bit closer.

“I wonder what would happen if one of us was away for longer than a day,” Viktor purred, kissing Yuuri's brow, “and to be frank I do not care to find out. I missed you too much already.”

Yuuri nodded and then nuzzled into Viktor's throat for a bit.

“How was your ride back?”

“Bearable. I could look at the countryside again and almost fall asleep.”

“Do not. I do not think postal carriages are any warmer these days than a few years ago,” Viktor said. “Or are they?”

“It was not exactly warm, no.” Yuuri kissed him. “Thank goodness you always have a fire on.”

They laid there in peaceful silence for a bit.

“I suppose I have missed your birthday this year,” Viktor said, “The year is almost over. When is it, anyways?”

“I don't know, to be honest,” Yuuri said, “for what it's worth, Celestino bought me on November 29th, so...”

“That was a Sunday,” Viktor said, “And... you spent it with me.”

“So I did.”

“But...” He shook his head. “You should have said something. I should-”

“It's not important, really. Or I would have said something.”

“But...” Viktor sighed. “November 29th. Alright. Next year you will have an amazing day, just watch me.” He shook his head. “I cannot believe we did nothing at your birthday.”

“I don't know in which world really good sex counts as nothing,” Yuuri sighed, “And I just realize, I never thought to ask about your birthday either. Sorry.”

“It is alright.” Viktor ran a hand through his hair. “It is not too important to me either.”

“When is it?”

Viktor shrugged. “Well, just like you, I do not know for sure. In winter is the only thing that is certain, with everything else those in charge had to guess. Of course, one could have just asked my serf parents, but that may have been too much trouble, I suppose.”

Yuuri swallowed. “That's terrible.”

“And a long time has passed since then. It has dulled by now.” Viktor stretched. “A while after that a friend of our landlord decided to sponsor me. So I got his name, Nikiforov. Also he got the privilege to pick a birthday for me. He decided that December 25th was a fine day, so one might consider it as my birthday.”

What?!

Yuuri swallowed. “But – that was yesterday!”

“It was,” Viktor agreed.

“I could have been here, you just-”

“Well, love, this is how I take my revenge.” Viktor chuckled and kissed him on the brow. “And also you are here right now.” He kissed down the back of Yuuri's nose. “That is the best I could have for my birthday. You know-” Another kiss on Yuuri's lips and then he moved on over his cheek and then down his jaw and his throat. “Much better than anything I could ever get from anyone else for this day.”

Yuuri moved and met his lips again and pulled him closer again as they kissed again, so deeply that it made Yuuri slightly dizzy. He clung to Viktor and pressed himself closer against him. “I still should have been here.”

“It is not important, really,” Viktor once more said. “Is just a day. Was set for me, but...” He faltered for a moment and then went on. “No personal connection with it. There are more important dates for me.” He ran a hand through Yuuri's hair. “The day we left Russia. The day we arrived here. My first solo here.” He kissed Yuuri's cheek. “The day you arrived here, our first talk. Unforgettable.”

“Indeed,” Yuuri chuckled, “You made very sure to show off your flair for the dramatic.”

“Did I?” Viktor ran his fingertips over Yuuri's side.

Yuuri giggled and tried to wind away from his tickling, but it subsided quickly again. “Our first kiss.”

“Your birthday.”

Yuuri sighed. “Alright, alright, we'll celebrate my birthday next year.”

Viktor beamed at him.

“But only if we also do something on your birthday. The next year and the year after and then the year after that.”

Viktor slowly, very slowly nodded. “That sounds... I do not really have words.” Then he smiled. “Does that include presents? I hope so, I want to give you all the presents I can, so will there be presents included in this idea?”

Yuuri smiled. “Sure, I'll...” He swallowed, “I'll be looking forward to it.”

Viktor's eye glistened with a rather mischievous shine. “Great! And have I heard already that you have something for me as well?”

Yuuri blinked. “Yes, I... I do, but...” It had been a stupid idea to get the thing, really a spur of the moment thing, but he had just gotten it and now-

“What is it?” Viktor asked, “Can I...” Once more, he faltered. “Can I have it?”

No way around it then?

Yuuri swallowed and then got up carefully, unfolding himself from Viktor’s arms.

The small linen bag was right on top inside his suitcase, just next to a soft indention where Plisetsky's book had lain.

He took it and then quickly returned back into the warm, welcoming circle of Viktor's arms. “If you don't like it, it's alright, I can give it back. I hope. Or sell it somewhere else,” he mumbled and quickly pressed the bag into Viktor's hand.

He heard the soft rustle as he opened the bag and in the corner of his eye he could see the soft glistening of the golden ring as it fell out and into Viktor's hand.

It wasn't really gold, but gilt silver was just as pretty and a good deal more affordable and Yuuri had wanted to get something for Viktor and it had seemed and felt right – still did, in fact, but there was still this gnawing sense of not a good idea in the back of his mind and he had no idea how to turn it off and he could only wait for Viktor-

“It is wonderful,” Viktor said, “thank you.” He pulled Yuuri closer again and then started showering his face with kisses. “Thank you, thank you...”

“So, you like it?”

“Of course! And - what do you think, how will things looks for us in late spring, what-”

“Maybe we'll be in Milan by then,” Yuuri said, “and if not in spring, then most definitely in autumn. You can throw me a birthday party there, if you want.”

“Perfect!” Grinning, Viktor buried his face in Yuuri's hair and held him tight for a long, long time. “You know,” he finally said, “I was not idle while you were gone.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Work is a great distraction from any desire to mope because your lover is not here.” Viktor chuckled. “I got on very well with the opera. With any luck I will finish it around New Year’s.”

“That's great,” Yuuri said. “Really great – has Mr. Feltsman already had a look at it?”

“Yes. He gave me several pointers I could work with – which was the main bulk of my work over Christmas.” There was such pride in Viktor's voice, such warmth. “It ends rather tragically, though. I saw no way to keep my main characters alive and give the story a proper ending.” He sighed. “But now that I made up my mind about it, I have grown quite fond of the idea, what do you think?”

“I'll love to hear it – is the libretto finished as well or just the music?”

“It is both about to be finished. Yura is helping me a little with the German. But it will not take much longer anymore.”

Yuuri turned around and kissed him on the lips. “I can't wait for it!”

Viktor smiled. “I do hope so – but still, please wait for a bit until after New Year’s.”

New Year’s. Yuuri nodded. “Alright. I'll badger and pester you until you hand it to me.”

Viktor laughed. “Is that a promise?”

New Year’s Eve came and went and shortly after, January trudged on as any other month before. Yuuri sang. Yuuri was annoyed with Richard Wagner. Yuuri went down to Viktor, who, these days, very often was sitting on his desk, desperately writing and correcting the last few bits – or so he claimed - of his opera.  
The month passed in peace and quiet, turned to February, turned to March.  
February was less peaceful; a few days into the month Yuuri witnessed the police arresting a group of people in broad daylight. One or two faces he even recognized from the times Plisetsky had taken him with him to one of his meetings. It was happening around noon and in the evening Yuuri was glad to spend the night with Viktor; even inside the theatre they could hear the ruckus on the streets.  
Arrests continued during February, some smaller, some larger, and they increased in frequency the closer March got.

 

And March came.

And surprisingly the first few days of March were quiet. No arrests, maybe because the police found nobody acting in a way that even remotely deserved arrest. Which was alright with Yuuri, he could imagine better past times than picking up Plisetsky from jail.

The quiet ended on March 4th; it would have been just too good for the quiet to continue.

March 4th was a Sunday and Yuuri spent the afternoon usually with either Viktor in the cave or with Phichit or some of his friends.

And it was with Phichit that he was walking home from a late lunch at a nice, affordable place on the other side of the river when they heard the noise, interrupting Phichit's detailed reports on the harvest of vanilla that apparently had been decent, better than the last two years, but not so high a yield that it would cheapen the price one could demand for a pound of the spice.

Then, just on the height of Gerok street they heard shouts of, “To free the German people!” and, “Long live the democracy! Long live democracy!”  
And so many voices, so many of them and it still sounded as if it was quite a few streets away from them.

“That does not sound good,” Phichit mumbled.

“Not at all.” They turned around and walked away, walked away from the calls, the voices, the shouts, the noises-

Yuuri turned to look over his shoulder and then there were gun shots. And screams.

“Oh no...”

Phichit grabbed his arm. “Quick. Let's go back – the riverbanks, that...”

The gun shots rang up again, cut through the air as if they could get to them; they walked faster and went back to the bridge.  
Police. And soldiers. Police and soldiers on the bridge, looking at them and instinctively Yuuri wanted to turn again and run away again, but that would have made him just suspicious and...

“Good afternoon,” Phichit chirped, smiling broadly, but Yuuri could see how his shoulders tensed, and they were foreigners, both of them, they were not from here, how would these men respond to them and-

One of the police officers looked up and down on them. “What are you doing out here?” he asked and he sounded somewhat less unfriendly than he could have.

It was a good thing that Yuuri had decided on good clothes. Not evening finery, but good quality, clean and without any repairs.

“We were just getting back from lunch, over there, near the Carola square,” Phichit continued, “a few minutes ago you were not here, right?”

“Just arrived,” one confirmed.

“Wonderfully efficient,” Phichit praised, “Always very impressive, but – what is going on over there? It seems like quite-”

“Nothing to worry,” one of the soldiers said, “Nothing to worry.”

“There were screams,” Yuuri said, “and gunshots, so – what was that?”"

“As we said, nothing to worry about, if you were not involved in it,” another soldier said, “that said-” He looked up and down again, “what are you doing here?"

“Business man,” Phichit said, “Phichit Chula, spice and overseas goods trade, and Yuuri Katsuki here – he sings at the Royal Court Opera.”

“Ah, yes! The priest guy a while ago!” one said. “Don't worry, it really is nothing, just some- well, some people complaining too violently, so-”  
There were more gunshots. And more screams and more-

Yuuri swallowed.

Plisetsky, was Plisetsky there? Was Plisetsky there, was he involved, was he fine, was he being shot right there, was he...

“We... could we get through?” he asked, desperately forcing his voice to not quiver, he had to remain firm, he had to keep himself together until they got to the theatre and he got to Viktor...

“Better not, mister,” a police officer said, “see, there's quite a ruckus throughout the whole city in general, you'd definitely run into it – you're probably safest with us.”

“But-,” Yuuri wanted to protest, but Phichit once more put a hand on his arm.

“I think they are right,” he said, “we better stay here and wait it out until this is over.”

“But...”

Phichit's grip on his arm tightened. “Yuuri, please, it is safer that way, really.”

What to do? What else was there to do, aside of standing and waiting and listening and waiting and praying that this would not reach them and that – most importantly – Plisetsky would be alright.

Oh, if only Plisetsky was not involved in this. If only the boy was alright.

Plisetsky was alright, his mood notwithstanding.

Yuuri was free to go his merry – or not so merry – way after a few hours of waiting, waiting and listening, listening, listening, listening...

He had run off to the theatre the moment he had been free and seen Phichit safely arrive in hotel and when he ran down to Viktor, Plisetsky was already there.

“Oh thank goodness, you're not out there,” he blurted out the moment he saw him sitting there on the chaise lounge.

“No, I am not,” Plisetsky said, face pale and eyes glistening. “This... this is terrible, have you seen it?”

“No,” Yuuri admitted, “Phichit and I were out eating and we were just hearing something and...” He walked over to the boy and pulled him into a hug. “I'm just glad you've not been out there just now.”

“Had to promise...” Yura swallowed. “Otto begged me not to go and...” He briefly hugged Yuuri back now, but let go of him again almost instantly. “It's not fair, that wasn't... it was a memorial thing going on today, nothing more! That was it, that was all, that...” He shook his head. “And it got out of control, alright, I bet Kristoph had the smart idea to shout again and make a mess, but...”

“I am sure it will not be as bad as things are looking right now,” Viktor whispered, reaching out and running a hand through Plisetsky's hair. Then he asked, “Was Otto there?”

Plisetsky shook his head. “No. He made me promise to not go. Said he had to trust me on this one, but...” He swallowed. “His mother is not doing so well, he was looking after her today, so...”

Viktor sighed a breath of relief. “Then he should be fine too, right?” He got up and went to the cooking spot, grabbing a pot of water. “Tea?”

“Yes, please,” Yuuri said.

Plisetsky nodded. “Yes, Otto is fine, his family is somewhere in Prohlis, pretty far off from here. Would be surprised if they knew anything about it there. At least something not-shitty about this. His mother has a bad heart, you know, he worries about it. Sometimes says that such things are too shocking for her, they might kill her one of these days.”

That really didn't sound good. But it  at least partially explained why Otto Becker was so actively careful about his and Plisetsky's involvement in any non-monarchy-loyalist activities. “How many people do you know of being present at this memorial service?” Yuuri asked.

“Quite a few.” Plisetsky swallowed. “Most of our usual round, minus those they already incarcerated of course – damn pigs...” He bit his lips. “If only... if only...”

“No sense in worrying about them now,” Viktor sighed and Yuuri heard the whistle of the kettle starting. “They are either dead or alive and worrying for themselves.”  
Plisetsky shot him a dark look. “How can-”

“I can say that because I do not know any of them, but I do know you and it is you I am worried about,” Viktor snapped.

The whistle of the kettle grew louder.

“It is you who knows them, it is you someone might name as another nose in this mess, it is you who might end up questioned and even imprisoned because someone else tried to save their skin by appearing cooperative.” He took the kettle from the fire and poured the hot water into the teapot. “Forgive me for worrying that you suffer from this despite not being there, forgive me for...” He took a deep breath.

Plisetsky swallowed. “I... I wasn't there, so... they can't really do anything to me, right? And I... I am not... I am not shot. Or anything. I am fine. Right?”

Viktor carefully carried the pot over to them. “Yes. I hope so.” He reached out and ran a hand through Plisetsky's hair. “You are safe here. That is good for the moment.”

Only when he poured them their tea a moment later they all realized that in his hurry to make it he had forgotten to add herbs and tea and flower petals to the pot.

 

On March 6th, during rehearsal, three police officers showed up in a rather discreet fashion.

Yuuri didn't even notice them at first, only looking up when a man in a long, brown coat walked over to Mr. Wagner, softly talking to him, all the while pointing up to them on the stage.

Plisetsky, next to Sara, turned ashen and stiff and waited. And they all waited and looked on as the man talked a little more.

Mr. Wagner's face betrayed nothing but mild concern, not even when his eyes darted up to the stage, to Plisetsky, not even when he nodded and when he turned to them and said, “Ah well – Yuri, dear boy, your presence is required here – the gentlemen would like to have words with you and – anyone knows a Mr. Otto Becker? Supposedly he works here, too? If anyone was-”

“Present,” Otto Becker called from the ceiling down to them. “I will be down in a moment.”

“Wonderful,” Mr. Wagner purred, “I am sure you will be in agreement with me, officer.”

“A Mr. Thomas Werner, too,” the man said, sounding quite unimpressed.

The chorus singers had already left for a large part. Yuuri swallowed. “Not in the house anymore,” he said.

The police man looked up to him and Yuuri recognized him as one of the men on the bridge. “He'll be present at tonight's performance, if you want to talk to him after that. I'm sure he won't mind.”

That was the best route. Cooperating. Not making a fuss. Being pliant. Not saying too much, but not resisting either, not when some form of authority was involved.

The officer raised an eyebrow. “Alright. If he shows up tonight, none of you – him included – has much reason to worry, I am sure.”  
That didn't sound too good.

Yuuri shot a worried glance to Plisetsky, who was even paler now, but quietly came down and after a moment appeared in the audience hall together with Otto.

His shoulders were set in a firm, strict line.

And he was shivering.

Yuuri felt a rush of sympathy for him.

Together they left, the officer in the long brown coat leading them, the uniformed police a bit behind them in a suspiciously inconspicuous display of efficiency. Of course. It would not do to make a scandal out of a simple questioning of a young singer and an unimportant stage hand.

Of course.

Mr. Wagner looked on.

Then he sighed and clapped into his hands. “Alright, gentlemen, we better get busy again then, shall we?”

They did get busy. They sang. They finished rehearsal. They waited through the day, which for Yuuri meant sitting with Viktor, listening to him telling himself that it would be alright, Yura had not been involved in anything, he had merely shown interest and listened but never actively participated in anything, he would be fine, nobody would do anything to him, right, he would be fine...

Then the evening performance came and they somehow made do without Plisetsky; a seasoned tenor filled in for him, not a perfect fit, but he didn't blunder his lines either and the applause he garnered ranged from polite to mildly approving.

And then Thomas, as quietly and obediently as Plisetsky and Otto earlier that day, went with the police officers.

At the very least, Yuuri tried to console himself and Viktor, at the very least neither of them were actively trying to court trouble. At the very least Plisetsky would come home alive and in one piece.

Mr. Feltsman could pick Plisetsky up the next morning and as he did so he also brought Otto and Thomas with him, right before chorus rehearsal started.

“Stupid boys,” he scolded, loud enough for the waiting chorus to hear them from afar, “stupid, silly idiots!”  
“Never met a smart idiot in my life,” Plisetsky grumbled. “Damn it, Yakov, I wasn't there! None of us were! I didn't even-”

He was cut off by an incessant, loud stream of angry Russian, just as Otto and Thomas peeled around the corner of the corridor.

Otto nodded a farewell and quickly disappeared in the background to get to his work.

Thomas closed up to them. He was pale and haggard and didn't look like he had slept too well. Jail beds probably were not too comfortable.

Alexander gave his brother a quick hug. “You alright?”

“Yes, yes.” Thomas sighed. “Damn pigs...”

“I told you to keep some distance,” Alexander hissed, “Mama told you, father told you – do you have an idea how to explain it to them when they find out and trust me, they will! You know how mama is! They will find out!”

“So?! At least I'm doing something!” Thomas crossed his arms. “Unfair, though, that they took Plisetsky, too. I mean, me and Becker, we knew what was up, so yeah, fair game, but questioning him and all that, that was-” He shook his head. “Well, goes to show you.”

“What happened anyways?” Andreas asked. “I just got the info that there would be a remembrance on Sunday and those sympathetic to the cause of the democracy should attend if they were willing to-” He faltered. “Oh.”

“Some of the ringleaders decided to make a mark, to show those pigs in their fancy castles what's up,” Thomas said. “Brought guns and... they didn't inform too many people about it. Me and Becker knew. For him this meant that he didn't want to attend the event. Coward.”

“Are you...” Alexander looked around and only now seemed to realize that they were on the presence of several other people. “We'll talk later, you can bet on this.”

Thomas' brow furrowed, but otherwise he seemed unimpressed. “Well, what would you-”

“Stupid boys!” Mr. Feltsman bellowed, coming around the corner.

Yuuri saw Plisetsky shuffling in behind him, face pale and eyes rimmed red as if he had been crying. He looked terrible.

“Stupid boys, all of you!” Mr. Feltsman continued, “Want change world, oh, yes, because little man change so much, yes! Want show authorities who boss, yes, because they are boss, yes! Want show world authorities bad so provoke authorities, yes! Smart, so smart, impressed! Go rule country, if so smart! If so smart, why still here?!”

Yuuri's stomach lurched.

He looked to Thomas.

And Thomas was already opening his mouth.

“You! Excused from rehearsal! For good while. Both you!”

“What?!” Alexander's eyes widened in shock. “No, please, Mr. Feltsman...”

“You bring brother away. Parents live in Pirna, right? Good place. Small place. Quiet place. Far away from Dresden. No revolts there, no shootings!” Mr. Feltsman by now had started pacing up and down in front of them. “Bring brother there. He cool down. Then when cool down either return or find work elsewhere. Will help with that.”

“But that's not fair!” Thomas exclaimed, “why?!”

“Because say so!” Mr. Feltsman snapped, “because dead singers useless. Living singers more useful even when not here! Singers with dead family useless too, so you better leave. Now!”

“But...”

“Need money for train?!” Mr. Feltsman, even more agitated, reached into his pocket, pulling out a wallet.

He counted down a few bills and pressed them into Alexander's hand who could hardly hold onto them. “Here. Shall be enough. You go. Pack. Leave.”

The brothers didn't move.

“Becker!”

The yell echoed through the corridors and a moment later Otto Becker showed up again. “Yes?”

Mr. Feltsman looked him up and down. “You free today. Look like shit. But bring brothers to home. See they pack. Then bring them to train. For Pirna. See they get on. Do not want them in town. Do not want them kill themselves. Understood?”

Otto Becker raised an eyebrow. “If you explain to Mr. Holtzer why my work didn't get done today, yes.”

“Yes, yes!” Mr. Feltsman waved a hand impatiently. “Them. Take them. Out! Now!”

Otto Becker sighed, exchanged a look with Plisetsky and then turned to the brothers who were still too surprised by this turn of events to move. “Alright. Better go. I suppose.”

Alexander swallowed. “But...”

Mr. Feltsman looked at him. “I write parents. I write you. You write back when know what to do without one of you go get himself shot.” All of a sudden his voice was a lot softer, gentler, almost friendly. “Not want you dead. Not want you grieving. Off you go.”

Now, finally, they moved, putting one foot in front of another.

Thomas still shook his head. “That's not fair...” he complained once more.

“Bah,” Mr. Feltsman said, “not fair you worry brother. Not fair you may have brother grieve. Not fair being stupid not thinking about family.” He turned around. “Out. Out with you.”

Otto gently placed a hand between each man's shoulders and led them off.  
Mr. Feltsman looked at the group of singers who had just witnessed this. “Remember. No stupid in my chorus. Need singers alive. Need singers here. Need singers smart. No. Stupid.”

They all looked at each other, then nodded, mumbling “Yes, Mr. Feltsman” in unison.

“Good. Now singing.”

And so, they went on to sing.

It was not the best rehearsal they ever had, most of them being slightly distracted, but apparently Mr. Feltsman was so himself. He most certainly didn't yell at them as much as they might have deserved for their small blunders and when rehearsal was over he left in a hurry, an expression of absent-minded terror etched on his old, harsh face.

After solo rehearsals – which had passed without Mr. Wagner sparing Yuuri even a glance and for the first time ever Yuuri could not find it in himself to mind – Plisetsky came to Yuuri. “There's only one train to Pirna in the morning and one in the afternoon,” he said. “Morning train should be coming through any moment and Otto's probably waited with Thomas and Alexander the whole time till now.” His mouth quirked up in something like a smile. “He's diligent like that, you know... I'll go pick him up now. You wanna come?”  
“What?” Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “I am not sure I want to impose on your alone time.”

“If you would I wouldn't ask you.” Plisetsky looked on his feet. “Viktor will be more at ease when he knows you accompany me. Yakov too. He spent the whole morning yelling at us.”

“Probably because he was worried,” Yuuri suggested.

“Yes and you being around is his reassurance that I won't do anything he deems stupid, so he has no reason to worry,” Plisetsky reasoned.

Yuuri found it hard to argue with that. “Alright.”

They walked in silence up to the Old Market square and then along Prague Street to the train station.

Finally, when the building was in sight and the whistle of a train engine rang through the air, Plisetsky sighed. “You know, I had no idea. I...” He swallowed. “That's...”  
Yuuri clapped his shoulders. “I know. It's alright. It's good you weren't there.”

Plisetsky nodded.

They saw Otto before he saw them, walking out of the building with his hands deep in his pockets, gaze to the ground.

Plisetsky made himself free from Yuuri and walked up to him; they exchanged a few words and then a quick, one-armed hug, like brothers, before coming back.

Otto – just like Plisetksy and Thomas – hadn't taken the night under police observation well. His eyes were sunken in, his cheeks hollow and his lips chapped.

“I think I need something to drink,” Yuuri said, “Tea, preferably, or coffee. You in?”

The two nodded and quickly headed to one of the coffee and tea houses that lined the avenue.

This early in March the air was still biting cold and the warmth, along with the scent of freshly roasted coffee beans and cake, was washing over Yuuri like warm water.

Plisetsky sniffed a little, taking in the aromas.

Otto's face relaxed, just a little, and it relaxed even more when they found a quiet little corner where they could occupy a table quite for themselves, only interrupted by a serving girl that took their orders of three cups of coffee, two Eierschecke and one Butterstreusel; Yuuri didn't feel like observing Lent was in his capacity right now. He'd confess on Sunday and atone. But now, cake and coffee took immediate precedent before anything else.

The girl looked fetching in her white apron over a dark green dress and her smile was warm and welcoming. The house itself was nice too, recalling more the salon of a woman like Eleonora Awesfeld rather than a place where people could buy and devour their meals outside their home.

“Looks expensive,” Otto observed, sitting next to Plisetsky, opposite to Yuuri.

“Probably is,” Yuuri admitted, “Didn't check beforehand, I just wanted coffee.”

“Don't come complaining to me when you're totally broke this week,” Plisetsky grumbled. “Hear me?”

“As if I'd ever complain to you about money.” Yuuri shook his head. “It's alright, I usually save some up. Once in a while I can use my wages up instead.”

“If you say so.”

Otto looked around.

“I didn't get to ask before,” Yuuri said, “but... you are alright?”

Otto blinked at him. “Yes,” he said and then swallowed. “I think so. I...” He ran a hand through his hair. “It's been a long night.”

“Little sleep,” Plisetsky added. “Too many questions, too.”

Yuuri made a face. “Sounds nasty.”

“It is.” Otto swallowed again. “Thomas Werner is right about that, at least. The police are a bunch of shitstains.”

“Language,” Plisetsky mumbled. “If Yakov can complain about mine, I can complain about you teaching me dirty words, too.”

Otto looked at him and smiled with both exhaustion and fondness etched onto his features. “I'll try to keep it in mind. But yeah, it was...” He swallowed. “They at least didn't beat up any of us. That's something.”

“Maybe because you didn't put up a fight,” Yuuri suggested.  
The cake and coffee came and Yuuri – along with the serving girl – watched in both horror and fascination how both Otto and Plisetsky made rather short work of their servings.

He quickly gestured at her to bring another two servings and pushed aside a small, nagging voice that was trying to calculate whether he had enough money with him. If not, he would pay as much as possible, leave something here for security – his pocket watch, maybe – and then come back tomorrow.

“Thank you,” Plisetsky mumbled, a few crumbs of his Butterstreusel decorating the corner of his mouth.

Yuuri took a small fork full of his Eierschecke. “You hadn't had breakfast then, I take it?”

Both of them nodded.

“A police station is not exactly what I would call an upscale hotel,” Otto remarked, picking up his coffee cup, inhaling deeply. “Real coffee... I can count on one hand how often I get this in a year...”

“Me too, at least since I've come here,” Yuuri sighed. “In my boarding house it's usually black tea stretched with some herbs or something Mrs. Hauberer claims to taste like coffee, but - well, I think for her having a cup is an even rarer occurrence than for any of us.”

Plisetsky chuckled. “Might be an interesting business concept. Coffee house for artists.”

“In Milan artists are among the main patrons of one, usually,” Yuuri said.

The coffee was strong, too, filling his whole mouth and running down his throat with a gentle, gentle bite. It left a slightly tingling aftertaste as well.

Hm. Good. Maybe this would be a nice place to invite Phichit to on occasion. The cake was good as well, the Eierschecke fluffy and fresh and creamy on his tongue, while Plisetsky's Butterstreusel had been golden and probably just the right amount of crumbly and crispy without being too dry.

Definitely a good spot.

“Why were you arrested anyways?” he asked.

“Not arrested,” Plisetsky corrected. “Only questioned. And they didn't find us deserving of arrest, since-” He took a sip of coffee.

“We didn't actively participate in any forbidden activity,” Otto continued in his stead. “So they couldn't do much. And Yura didn't even know much about anything. As far as the police is concerned, Yura is young, idealistic in the wrong way – their words, not mine – but a good sort and will hopefully soon grow up to see the error of his current ways.”

“Otto, please,” Plisetsky mumbled in a voice that suggested he was about to vomit, “I'm eating.” Nonetheless he continued to do so without showing any sign that he was to actually throw up.

“Just saying. Me and Thomas Werner – well.” Otto sighed. “Most people really just were there for a remembrance, you know. Last year around that time, things got hot in Dresden and it seemed like a good idea to remind ourselves – and the king and his staff – of that and that we are still here and still unhappy. That was it. Then some people got the idea to go further. To use this. To start another uprising. Or make it look like one. They...” He sighed. “In any case, it went the way that they took some guns and pistols and fired shots and the police saw that and...” He shook his head. “And now we have that mess.” He took a sip of his coffee. “You know, I suppose they would have done something anyways. The police, I mean, and the army. They would have done some shit one way or another, I guess. They would have found something, they always find something, one only has to look at them funny, but we could have used that against them, we could have complained about the injustice of not being allowed to remember what happened without being accosted and how unfair people are treated by the police when their ideas don't seem proper. That would have been worth something. And they didn't even have enough weapons to show they actually mean business. That would have had at least some use.”

Yuuri shook his head. “I thought you are trying to keep away as much as possible from violence.”

“I am. I do. But if it is bound to happen and if it is the only way left, better channel it in a way that sends a clear message to those who should hear it. In the end it should be the last resort, though.”

The cakes and coffee came and Yuuri took the chance to gesture for more coffee – a whole pot over a small, candle-heated stovelet – and a piece of Butterstreusel for himself.

The girl smiled at all them even broader, probably in expectation of a nice bit of money at the end of the day. If possible, Yuuri was of a mind to help her to it. She was good at her job, attentive, quick and unobtrusive.

“By now, though, violence is the only language they understand,” Plisetsky pointed out.

“Or not.” Yuuri took a bite out of his cake. “You know, the thing about violence is that it tends to provoke even more violence. The side with fewer weapons will end up being shot down.” He noticed Otto nodding in agreement.

“Wow,” Plisetsky sighed, “that could have been Mr. Wagner talking.”

Yuuri's eyes widened. “What - whoa!”

“Whoa!” Otto agreed, “that was... that was low!”

“Lay off the insults, please!” Yuuri begged.

“But – that wasn't an insult!” Plisetsky said. “But...” He paused. “Yeah, right,” he then mended, “Sorry.”

Yuuri smiled as a sign that there were no hard feelings and nodded.

The coffee pot came and with it a small, hollow cylinder in which a few small candles burned to ensure the coffee would stay nice and hot until it was drunk in its entirety.

Otto poured himself a cup, obviously relishing in this rare luxury. “I hate to say it, but at this point I don't think that a violent eruption is avoidable anymore. Just a matter of time, so... I'd say you singers sing as long as you can sing.” He toasted to them as if he were holding a beer jug. “Sing and prepare for things turning sour.”

“I'll consider myself appropriately warned,” Yuuri sighed. “And just in case it comes to this in the foreseeable future. Where will you be?”

“As far away from the central bloodshed as possible,” Otto said. “I don't support violence and will not partake in it. But I'll probably be in a support role, keeping the losses as little as possible – getting people out, leading them to safety, and all that. That's what I did last time. Standing watch, getting people to safety whenever I see them running, hiding them in cellars or in sewers and then getting them out of town for a while. Ideally. Didn't always work out like that.”

Plisetsky made a face and then took a bite from his cake instead of saying something.

“Thomas and Alexander are on the train?” Yuuri asked and poured himself some more coffee.

“Yes.” Otto nodded. “Made sure of that. Can't guarantee they don't jump off at the next station and come back here again, but if Mr. Feltsman sees them I suppose there'll be enough red going around to dye the theatre curtains. Alexander Werner knows that, I think, so he will have a close eye on Thomas. I hope so, I really don't want to be blamed for them showing up again.”

“Yakov wouldn't blame you for them not listening to him,” Plisetsky argued.

“I am not entirely convinced of that,” Otto said.

They finished their cakes and coffee, the serving girl came and Yuuri paid the five marks it all had cost. A pretty hefty sum, but still less than he would have thought.

The girl smiled sweetly. “You took so much coffee, I suppose it's alright to let you pay for two pots instead of a pot and six cups.”

“Thank you, Miss, very kind of you,” Yuuri said, smiling, and he made sure she'd have at least five groschen for her tip as he put the money into her hand.

He noticed that Otto waved to her and handed her something as well and that Plisetsky did the same.

The girl's smile grew even wider. “Thank you so much, misters, have a nice day! And come back soon!”

“We will.”

They got up and left, walking down the streets and through the centre.

A bell tolled and Otto sighed. “I suppose there's no use for me to go back to the theatre now. You two?”

“No performance tonight,” Yuuri shrugged. He would still go back, though, but for now, he wandered around town with Otto and Plisetsky, leaving the centre and the Old City behind quickly and wandering to quarters with more humble buildings.

It was only two streets away from his boarding house when Otto said, “Alright. Thanks for picking me up. And thanks for the coffee and... I'll pay you back next payday.”

Yuuri shook his head. “No need to. Consider yourself invited.”

“I insist.”

“So do I.” He smiled. “As I said, I won't starve from this. Have a good day, you two.” He turned around and walked away, heading back for the theatre.

At this time of day and in the middle of the week the streets were quiet and only sparsely populated.

It was pleasant, walking in broad daylight without constantly bumping into someone and without being overwhelmed by voices and the creaking and clacking of horse carts and of footsteps hitting the pavement.

Except that there were footsteps.

Yuuri was pretty sure he heard them close behind himself and he didn't like it at all.

But then again – could he be sure?

Slowly he walked up to a corner.

Then took a turn to the left, very visibly so.

The steps followed him.

When he turned around, there was nobody overly suspicious, a few women were carrying home groceries, a mother watched her children play, a few men were chatting.

Yuuri continued on his way – and the steps followed him.

Damn.

No way he would go to the theatre like that. He usually sneaked in through a side entrance and who could guarantee that he wouldn't be followed there too?

“Damn,” he mumbled to himself and then, with a deep sigh, turned around and headed back to the boarding house. No Viktor today. Which probably would not be to Viktor's liking at all, even less than it was to Yuuri's.

 

As expected, when Yuuri came down to the cave the next afternoon, a new letter from Celestino in his pocket, he was greeted by a hurried fall of footsteps and then arms that pulled him into a very close, very tight hug.

“Where were you yesterday?!” Viktor whispered into Yuuri's ear, “I was so worried for you, I thought...”  
“Sorry. I am alright.” Yuuri squeezed him tightly. “Sorry. I wish I could have sent you a note or something, but...” He kissed Viktor's cheek. “Sorry.”

Viktor looked closely at him. “Are you alright, though?”

“I am, really.” Yuuri pressed another kiss on Viktor's lips. “I wanted to come, but... well, first I had to make sure Otto and Yura don't faint from hunger and when I was on my way back to the theatre, someone was following me and – I thought it safer to not come here.”

Viktor nodded. “I see.” Once again, he hugged Yuuri tight. “Considering they were held by the police – maybe they are shadowing them and of course anyone associated to them. Or associated to Otto Becker.” He led Yuuri to the table, made him sit down and then busied himself with pouring something that smelled like camomile tea into a pot and putting it over the fire. “Yakov was here before. Apparently, the police could not say anything condemning about Yura, aside from the fact that he is interested in politics and in a way that authorities might not approve of. But Otto Becker is another matter, of course. He is more involved in this, but apparently him not being present at the events last Sunday means they cannot arrest him. I have to admire his good sense.”

Yuuri nodded. “Yes. Pretty stable head he has. So I was followed because I dared walking, talking and treating Otto Becker, feared revolutionary extraordinaire to cake and coffee?”

“Coffee.” Viktor sighed wistfully.

Yuuri made a mental note to get him a little mill and coffee beans for the next opportunity he would find to get him a present. For now he said, “We were at a coffee house on Prague Avenue. I can bring you some of the cake they make there next time I'll go there.”

“I'll look forward to it. I have no idea which coffee house you are talking about, there are quite a few,” Viktor chuckled. “But yes, I suppose that is how it went. It can be that Otto Becker was already followed when he accompanied your friends to the train station. So of course, the moment you talked to him and had lunched with him made you suspicious. I suppose Yura did not help his cause either. Have you said anything to him yet?”

“I had no opportunity today,” he said.

“You should, since you were the one who was followed. Hopefully the boy learns to watch his mouth a little.” Viktor sighed. “It would be about time. With any luck he might even feel compelled to keep out of this mess.”

“Well, keeping out of the blood shedding aspects of revolts and revolutions.”

“Another proof of his intelligence.” Viktor bent down to kiss Yuuri on the cheek as he handed him his tea. “What would you like to work on today?”

“Hm...” Yuuri took a sip of his tea. “Your opera. If there's anything I can sing already, I'd love to try.”

Viktor hummed. “I am still polishing your parts. It should be perfect.”

“The aria, the one you finished first?” Yuuri asked, “I sang that already.”

“You really want to, huh?” Viktor shook his head. “I am still-”

“I think it is fine. Not that my German is perfect, but – it sounds wonderful to me. And I'd like to get the music into my head. Words are easier to re-learn than music.”

Viktor nodded. “Alright. Get warm then, yes? You still have the melody?”

“I think.” Yuuri went through his breathing exercises and then started to sing his notes.

Viktor in the meantime tuned his violin and then started to play.

Yuuri began to sing a few notes and then – yes, he found the note Viktor was playing and sang it.

Viktor gave him another note and Yuuri sang this one as well, carrying it, getting louder and fuller and then softer, gentler again.

Viktor then played the first few notes and Yuuri nodded, hummed and then sang.

“Eilend fliegt hin Zeit, die uns gegeben, eben noch tat ich einen Atemzug. Eben noch gab’s eine WElt zu seh’n zu fühl’n zu leben - und nun verschwendet und vergeudet und vertan! Vertan und verschwendet und doch kann es mich nicht dauern und doch traur’ ich nicht darum.”

Viktor nodded. “When you sing it, it sounds like so much more than what I have written.”

“Because it is so much.” Yuuri turned his head and wiped his eyes a little. “It is incredibly much.”

“I do not always see it that way,” Viktor admitted. “Sometimes it does feel rather trite to me the way I write it.”

“Maybe you simply see it so often and work on it so much that it has lost a bit of its power to you. I mean, if I sang a song two hundred times a day and was mulling over it even when I wasn't singing it would lose some charm to me, too, no matter how much I actually like it.” Yuuri walked over to Viktor and kissed his hand. “It is really lovely. I love singing your music.”

Viktor smiled. “Maybe I should simply hear it more often sung. As I said, it wins a lot when you perform it.”

Yuuri smiled. “I live to please.”

Viktor chuckled. “But you were a bit weak at the end. Again?”

Yuuri nodded and they started again and then went through another piece.

“Wie friedlich ist der Wald bei Nacht. Wie still hier alles schweigt,” Yuuri mused in a soft, low murmur, “Und doch - alles erwacht, alles erregt, das Blätterflüstern - sacht im Wind - zischt und rauscht so ungestüm - wie wird mir?!”

He left the last note hanging in the air and then breathed in and out. “What do you say?” he asked.

“Better, but maybe we should focus more on breathing exercises for a while. We have neglected that for a bit.”

“Either that or I sing this entire thing with more breath,” Yuuri said. “My character is so impressed he could die at any moment, right? If he sang with more breath-”  
“Yes, but you are very present nonethesless. Very aware. Very awake. I would like you to sound like that until the very end when the ghost of your character disappears.”

Yuuri nodded. “Alright. Breathing exercises then.”

“Would be better,” Viktor agreed, “You are dead, but still very driven. Want to protect someone.”

“When does he die anyways?” Yuuri asked. “You still haven't told me all that much about this role.”

“I did not?” Viktor blinked. “Oh. Apologies.” He cleared his throat. “It is mainly about a man and a russalka – do you know what these are?”

Yuuri did in fact not and thus only shrugged.

“Russalka are water spirits. Dancers. Good dancers, very graceful, elegant, beautiful.”

Yuuri had an inkling where this was going.

“And they also lure people in to dance with them. Then they dance until they die.”

“Russalka are probably always women, right?” Yuuri asked.

“They are. Usually spirits of women who drowned.”

“Thought so.” Yuuri sighed. “I wonder if there'll ever be a beautiful female nature spirit that is not evil in one way or another.”

“Do you have such creatures in Italy?”

Yuuri shrugged. “We're still living off on the Ancient Greeks and Romans in that regard and otherwise, we filch stuff from other European or African areas, just like our great grand ancestors did.” He cleared his throat. “Well, their ancestors, actually. I think Japan has a few water woman myths too, though.”

“Find out on occasion,” Viktor said. “Well, a man stumbles upon a group of Russalkas but he gets out of dancing with them, even manages to outwit them so one of them has to lead him back to a safe path. He befriends the one who leads him back and starts to trust him. They grow very close, despite the Elven king having forbidden such contacts and the people in the man's life are too worried for him to listen to him. They have to fight a lot for their friendship, an awful lot, but it makes their relationship just the stronger for it. But the Elven King wishes not for them to be together. So he lures them into a trap and the man dies.”

“So my character learns to trust the Fair Folk only to be killed by them?” Yuuri asked, “That's... well, it's not exactly cheerful.”

“I am Russian,” Viktor shrugged, “Please do not tell me that you were expecting an opera composed and written by a written by a Russian to be cheerful.”

“Not at all, but... still.” Yuuri shook his head. And then he smiled. “How long have you worked on this?”

“Too long. Longer than I care to admit,” Viktor said. “First idea came shortly after I came down here. I was intending Yura for the Russalka from the start. Perfect for him – written for him.” He smiled somewhat ruefully. “The topic is one Yakov loves a lot. Ask him about Russian folk and fairy tales. He can entertain you for hours.”

“Sounds like a family project,” Yuuri chuckled. “Are you really sure you want me in it, though?”

“Of course. The last time I checked long-term lovers count very much as family.”

Yuuri had to swallow. Then to chuckle and then to swallow again. “I... well...” Then he finally laughed a little. “You know, Celestino will love you. I mean, he is already pretty happy that I'm not all alone here, he's writing as much, and I bet he's already planning a wedding, so seeing you in person might be a bit of a rough awakening, but...” He swallowed.

“Are you sure about that? I hear meeting your future in-laws while they are still future rarely ends well and I do not wish to spoil my chances.”

Yuuri smiled and then squeezed Viktor's hand. “Just give him a moment to get to know you and he'll call you son in no time.”  
Viktor mumbled something in Russian.

“He will,” he insisted. “He's describing a new ballet instructor as,” and now he cleared his throat, “someone you, as I dearly hope, will soon find compelled to call mother.”

Viktor chuckled. “As long as she is not wicked, I do not see any problem.”

Yuuri huffed. “Me neither, she is probably a fine person, but if he can present to me one Mina Kowaleska I will never have as my new mother, I think I am allowed to give him a son-in-law of sorts without consulting him first.”

Viktor chuckled. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Yuuri smiled. “Do so – what do you say? Breathing exercises?”

“Breathing exercises.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winter's easing up for now. Apparently it just waited for me to get Christmas wrapped up?  
> This chapter is one of the things that will get the most editing and re-writing after CampNaNo. In general this last leg of this journey is one that I do like, but I do also think it needs a bit of polishing, so... if you find something that you think doesn't flow properly, something that needs elaboration, plot elements that feel unneccessary (I have a long list of these. Trust me. I. Have. And I love them and see how to give them some spotlight to) Just go to either the comment box or to tumblr and hit me with it. (I am thinking about editing sessions on discord too where people can watch me polish the text, chat me up about it and entertain me and be entertaned... would that be interesting to anyone?)
> 
> Thank you again for dropping in. You have no idea how much you mean to me.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ladies make their move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are again and slowly, slowly things come to an end.

Chapter 27

 

“Well then,” Mr. Wagner said after a run-through of _Faust,_ “starting next Monday, we will prepare ourselves for a staging of Ludwig van Beethoven's _Fidelio.”_

What?

Yuuri and Andreas exchanged looks, then they both looked around.

Everyone on the chorus stared at Mr. Wagner in equal confusion.

“What?” August finally asked. “Mr. Wagner, we don't even know when try-outs for the leads are.”

“We heard about this the first time today,” Johannes Erhardt agreed.

Mr. Wagner looked around. “That should be enough for you. I will announce my cast tomorrow the same time.”

A murmur rippled through their group, in some places louder than in others. There were hisses, soft complaints, outcries of dismay buzzing in Yuuri's ears.

“Calm down!” Mr. Wagner called, “Please, dear people, please! Calm down!”

They didn't really calm down, but Mr. Wager didn't pay attention to that. “These times are over,” he declared, “The director decides who is the best fit for a role, not one single singer, not a group of them together. I have seen how things have deteriorated in my absence. I will bear this no longer, not when I have the reputation of our fine house to consider. It is high time that the stage is room for our own, German talents again, who too long had foreigners steal their spotlight.” He looked around and his eyes met Mr. Feltsman's. “I was pleasantly surprised at first, I admit, you seemed to have worked very hard on the chorus, but the more I see, the more I realize that instead you have stunted the development of everyone here who would be even remotely deserving of extra attention.”

Yuuri felt his stomach drop. Next to him August cocked his head and then, ever so slightly, nodded.

Mr. Wagner took one last breath. “It was high time I came back. Good day. We'll speak tomorrow.” With that he turned round and walked off the stage. He passed a few crates and seemingly out of nowhere they fell over with a smattering crack.

Mr. Wagner flinched, looked at it and then hurried away.

For all the shivers Mr. Wagner could inspire in Viktor, apparently his fear of the man was only exceeded by his pettiness.

Yuuri very much wanted to kiss him right now. Or at least as soon as possible.

Mr. Feltsman was shaking his head, pale as death, as Sara came to him and started to talk to him in a low voice, brow furrowed, and they both shared a solemn, almost grim expression on their faces.

As the chorus and most of the soloists left – one by one, slowly, almost as if them leaving the stage would spell them never returning, with Johannes Erhardt and Plisetsky staying behind – Yuuri noticed Mila joining them, face equally serious.

They talked on and on and then, suddenly, Mila violently rubbed her eyes.

Mr. Feltsman handed her a handkerchief and she dabbed her eyes.

Sara did the same, just with her own kerchief.

Then they shook hands, Mr. Feltsman always taking the right hand of one of the women between his own two. Then he gave their shoulders a squeeze – and then they broke apart.

Johannes Erhardt pulled them both in a big, strong hug the moment Yuuri walked past them and the moment he released them Plisetsky, rather out of character for him, stepped up and reached out to them.

Mila smiled and hugged him tightly, like a brother.

Sara took over, but Plisetsky apparently now came to his senses since he quickly struggled free of her arms and rushed off.

Yuuri looked after him and then back to Sara and Mila. Mila opened her mouth, Sara looked at him intently – but then, at last, she just offered him a weak, soft smile full of pity.  
Mila offered him the same and then they left.

Yuuri looked at Mr. Feltsman, but he didn't seem like he wanted any more attention and so Yuuri left as well, slowly, far too slowly making his way down to the basement. He would have loved to run. But he didn't.

So that was it. His Dresden career was over, so to speak, he was condemned to a nameless chorus singer for the remainder of his stay here.

Yuuri was actually surprised how much it was bothering him. He would have thought he would be alright with it, that it wouldn't touch him. He already had halfway made up his mind about this anyways.

But still. But still. It had been halfway only. The other half had suddenly been taken from him, in a fashion decided for him and-

Viktor met him in the basement, waiting for him near the door and Yuuri hugged him tightly.

It was not fair. It had been his decision to make and he had been robbed of it, it was not fair that he was angry about an outcome that he might have decided by himself anyways and it was not fair that Viktor would have to see him like this.

Viktor held him for a moment and then took him into the darkness, into the peace, into the quiet.

“Sorry,” Yuuri sighed, “Bad...” He sighed again. “Not a bad day. Bad last hour or so. Maybe longer, don't know...” He was babbling, he realized. Damn.

“It is alright, love.” Viktor stopped in their tracks and kissed him on the brow. “I have seen it.” He ran a hand through Yuuri's hair. “Please know that I am truly and utterly willing to drop something on his head and fix every problem he has ever caused.”

“It wouldn't,” Yuui mumbled as they entered the cave and Viktor planted them both on the chaise lounge. “You know that.”

“If he was gone, maybe Yakov would take over and things would be better again,” Viktor argued. “It would fix a lot of things.”

“Not sure if Mr. Feltsman would be allowed to take over again,” Yuuri sighed, “Doubt it, honestly, and who knows who would come instead.”

“You are too pessimistic, love,” Viktor chided, “it would always be better because anyone has better ears and eyes than – him and would recognize how brilliant you are.”

Yuuri smiled weakly and opted to not answer that. “In any case, Yura's gonna kill you if you touch his idol.”

“He will live,” Viktor declared.

“He'd still be miffed.”

“I think I would survive that. Now, love, relax. You are so tense. Cannot teach you when you cannot even breathe without hissing.”

“I don't,” Yuuri complained, but he still accepted the shoulder massage Viktor was initiating without complaints. The same went for the kisses Viktor placed on his neck and also for the instances when Viktor interrupted his massage and just ran his hands over Yuuri's skin. It became more and frequent and Yuuri soon found himself responding in kind, turning in Viktor's arms so he could run his hands through Viktor's hair and over his skin.

“Gweh!” A bucket of cold water couldn't have been more effective than Plisetsky's very vocal dismay. “Ew!”

Yuuri sighed.

Viktor did the same, but for now did not remove himself from him. He barely even turned his face to look at Plisetsky. “Really, Yura. By now you should know better than to be surprised by anything you see happening down here.”

Plisetsky had seen Viktor running around buck naked, probably more than once, so Yuuri was inclined to agree with Viktor on that one.

Yuuri now looked at the boy himself. He stood directly in front of them, arms crossed and an expression of disgust on his face that curiously enough managed to appear real and affected when he replied, “I still can live in hope that someday you will learn to not do some things in general living areas.” He stood pretty close to them. Probably had sneaked up before he had decided to voice his opinion.

Viktor smiled brightly. “Well, if you say so. Now, as you can see, we were a bit busy just now, so maybe if you came back later?” He ran a hand down Yuuri's back and it made him shiver. He wasn't even that much in the mood for anything aside of some cuddling right now. Neither had Viktor been, or so he had thought, but then again, Viktor loved messing with the boy.

Plisetsky in turn was not in a mood to be messed with, at least not today. Instead he shot them a long, long look of pure, utter exasperation and then let himself drop onto the floor right in front of them.

“Or you can stay and watch, if you like, maybe-”

“I object to that,” Yuuri said.

Viktor looked at him, eye wide in mock surprise and Yuuri had to suppress a chuckle. “Oh, you do?”

“Yes.” Even if Viktor was just teasing right now, some lines had to be drawn, the clearer the better. “Very, very much so.”

“Thank god,” Plisetsky mumbled.

Viktor sighed. “Alright, then no visual education for the next generation. The next best thing to offer would be tea.”

“Lavender and pepper,” Plisetsky said. “I know you have that, the box is barely a week old. I want lavender and pepper tea.”

“Lavender and pepper tea it is then, as the young master wishes,” Viktor said, untangling himself from Yuuri. He pressed one last kiss on his lips and then got up to busy himself with fetching water and putting it over the fire.

Yuuri watched him for a moment, but then turned back to Plisetsky.

The boy was watching him intently. “Not the exhibitionist sort, then?”

Yuuri shook his head. “No, thank you.”

“Thank you,” Plisetsky said, “one thing less to worry about.”

Yuuri chuckled.

“Christophe was just as bad as Viktor. Would even change and strip down when a woman was present, not that Mila or Sara were ever too impressed with him, I have to give them that. But... Chris and Viktor didn't even care if someone could walk in on them. It's a wonder nobody ever did.”

He was hearing about his lover's past lover, one Viktor had admitted to still hold some affection for and that man sounded so different from himself.

It was in the past, though. Yuuri shouldn't let it bother him. And it didn't, not all that much, really. The slight pang was easy to put aside.

“Oh, sorry,” Plisetsky said, “That would be an awkward topic.”

“Yes, a little.” Yuuri smiled. “Viktor seems to have changed a bit since then.”

“Yep, he did.”

Viktor decided this was the perfect moment to come back with the teapot and three mugs in hand. “Here we are, lavender and pepper tea, as demanded by our lord and master, young genius Yuri Plisetsky.”

Plisetsky stuck out his tongue towards him.

Viktor poured the tea and handed them their mugs. Yuuri also got first a peck on the lips, then a longer kiss along with his tea.

Plisetsky sighed. “Urgh, please!”

“Deal with it,” Viktor said.

“I'm trying. You're not making it easy.”

“Well,” Viktor took a sip of his tea, “what is the reason for you to come down here at this time of the day? What would move you to grace us with your presence?”

“He.” Plisetsky nodded towards Yuuri. “You.”

“What?” Yuuri blinked.

“Yes. I mean, you didn’t look too well back there, so…” Plisetsky shrugged. “I mean, Yakov did not as well, I think he’ll come down too later. But right now he’s dealing the usual way, so…”

“Intimate lovemaking is out of question for today, then,” Viktor said.

“Yes, I think so,” Plisetsky said and then looked on at Yuuri. “So? How are you?”

“I'm...” Yuuri pondered his answer for a moment. “I'm fine?”

“Pfft,” Plisetsky scoffed, “yeah, sure. Alright, now the truth.”

Yuuri swallowed. The truth? Truth was...

“It's shit,” he blurted out. “I mean, all of a sudden, this, I thought...” He took a deep breath. “Well, my career here is over all of a sudden, so… what am I to make of that?”

Plisetsky looked at him with something that was almost pity. Oh. Oh no, no, no, no. Yuuri would not have that.

He swallowed. “What about you? I mean, you’re a foreigner as much as me and Sara, so…”

“Mr. Wagner had a talk with me,” Plisetsky admitted. Amazingly he didn’t look too proud of that. “I mean, not really long or anything, just… he said I’m too good to be considered Russian. Too talented, to intelligent, but…” He sighed, “He also said that I still show quite a few deficits that are apparently typical for my country. Whatever he means by that. My discipline is lacking and is lacking even more when there are matters of the heart - his words, not mine - involved, so…”

“Nothing new?” Yuuri asked.

“Not really, no.” Plisetsky shrugged. “I asked him to cite examples when my performance had suffered the last time.”

“And?” Viktor asked, sounding quite delighted, “what did he say?”

“Nothing,” Plisetsky said, “he couldn’t come up with an answer.”

Yuuri smiled softly. “Well, you’re not me, so that was to be expected.”

“That’s not it,” Plisetsky said. He smiled grimly. “It’s just that I can’t do anything but sing. I don’t know anything else. And honestly I don’t want to know anything else. I love singing, I love it, and I’ll be damned to let anything have so much influence on me to endanger that.” His smile turned a little less sardonic. “I told him as much and - well, he was pretty stunned. Silent for a bit, even, never thought I’d live to see the day. He promised me a leading role in the next opera after _Fidelio,_ but he will not change any decisions he has made for that one.”

“Under what condition?” Viktor asked, “I am sure he had a condition for that.”

Plisetsky made a face. “You make him sound like some sort of scheming, bloodsucking monster.”

“Well, I wonder why,” Viktor grumbled.

“He only wanted me to promise that I work hard and won’t be distracted. And to not give him cause to complaints.”

“My German is not as good as yours is,” Viktor said, “But to me that does sound a lot like Please do not have romances or I will have to be very mean to you.”

“Sounds about right,” Yuuri sighed, “If I had agreed with him that resigning me to perpetual bachelordom was the way to go he might have actually given me a small solo in

_Fidelio.”_

“Only if he was in a very generous mood,” Viktor said, “which is quite rare for him. Almost non-existent, I dare say.”

“He seemed to be, back then,” Yuuri chuckled, “You’re lucky you’re so handsome, or I would have considered it.”

“Aw,” Viktor said, not sounding too impressed.

“I was still mad at you at that point,” Yuuri insisted.

“I know.” Viktor batted the lashes of his eye at him and Yuuri had to laugh.

“ Alright, I think I prefer how things are now.” At the very least he was spared extensive contact with Mr. Wagner. That had to be worth something, no, that was worth something.

Viktor chuckled. “What a fortunate thing then, that I am as handsome as I am?”

“A very fortunate thing,” Yuuri said, leaning down for a kiss.

Viktor pulled him close.

Plisetsky gagged. “Urgh! Gross!”

Viktor laughed and pulled Yuuri just the closer, which in turn caused Yuuri to chuckle.

“What will you do then, though?” he asked. “Be disciplined?”

Plisetsky shrugged. “I always am, but – well, me and Otto had that discussion already and I am not keen to repeat it. One time was shitty enough, so...”

Viktor nodded. “I see. Good.”

“Yes,” Plisetsky sighed. “Yes, good. I suppose.” He sighed again. “We'll see how it works out. I don't think I'll have too much trouble, though, I mean – he never had any reason to complain about me, so...”  
Yuuri nodded. “Yes. You should be fine.” And hopefully he would be fine too at some point.

 

The week passed uneventful at least if one could ignore the constant shouting going on between Mr. Wagner and Mr. Feltsman that usually took place in one office or the other and just as usually ended in slammed doors, sometimes shattered glass or porcelain and very often Mr. Feltsman stomping off, uttering curse words Yuuri's Russian was not good enough yet for to grasp them in their entirety. Which was probably for the better.

Monday rolled around and they all gathered on stage, waiting for Mr. Wagner to show up.

He came in late, strolling up to them with leisure. “Good morning everyone, I hope you are all in a good mood? Everyone is ready, I see?” He looked around. “Wonderful.”

Mila and Sara stood side by side; Yuuri could only see their straight, stiff backs and the high arches of their necks betraying tension.

“Well, as promised! _Fidelio!”_ Mr Wagner held up several folios and then handed them to Plisetsky who, in turn, passed them around. “The only opera Ludwig van Beethoven ever composed and one wonderfully appropriate to our days and times.” He cleared his throat. “A young man is captured and imprisoned on trumped up charges of treason against an unjust regime.”

“Jacobins,” Sara interjected. “The regime in _Fidelio_ is made of Jacobins.”

“Thank you, Miss Crispino, but I prefer to have my history lessons from someone who knows what he's talking about.”

Sara huffed.

“His young wife Leonore wants to break him free, so she disguises herself as a man and works as a servant for the prison master. In his service she gets to see the prison, the prisoners and finds out about the planned murder of her husband. In the end she can prevent it, the corrupt villain is vanquished and the just and good authority restores justice and peace by freeing the prisoners. May we all feel inspired.” Mr. Wagner looked around. “Now, for the cast. Mr. Berger, Mr. Zwillich, congratulations on your first small solo role.” He handed them the libretti himself, two men a little younger than Yuuri. He had never talked much to them, but they were alright, he supposed and it was good for them to have a shot at bigger roles.

It didn't matter much to him anyways at this point. Mr. Wagner had made it abundantly clear that Yuuri would not get a role. It meant he didn't have to stand here and wait for his name to be called, stomach dropping with each passing second. In fact, he could watch the proceedings with ease.

He listened as Mr. Wagner rattled off roles – Rocco, the prison director went to Johannes Erhardt, Florestan, the damsel in distress, so to speak, was going to Jürgen Ensler, a friend of August Stadler and just as keen of getting into Mr. Wagner's good graces. No surprises here, at least not for Yuuri or Plisetsky. The others looked a little shocked at the fact that Plisetsky was not getting a role this time.

Most other roles were male; several times he noticed how Andreas or anyone else from the chorus he still was somewhat close to looked at him and then he heard a soft sigh.

“How are you so calm?” Andreas whispered. “That should piss you off to no end.”

Yuuri shrugged. “I've seen it coming. Can't hold a rage for days on end, you know, I'm not blond and Russian.”

“Heard that,” Plisetsky grumbled as Governor Don Fernando was announced to be a freelance singer Yuuri had never even heard of. Ah well.

“I only say the truth and you know that,” Yuuri hissed back.

Plisetsky shot him a sardonic smile.

Marzeline was sung by one of the newer chorus girls and she looked like she was about to faint from that bout of luck.

“And Leonore – the heroine, the resourceful, intelligent woman that will do anything to free her husband and who seizes the moment to end injustice and oppression – a small scale, but maybe the seed for true justice to grow.”

Mila and Sara in front of Yuuri sighed with heaving shoulders.

“Now. Miss Babitch.” Mr. Wagner smiled and held out the last libretto folio.

Mila's shoulders tensed. “Oh.”

That was most definitely not the reaction Mr. Wagner had expected.

Neither had anyone else.

Some heads turned and looks went to Mila.

Mr. Wagner blinked. “Mila, my dear, I know you are the most humble woman one can imagine-”

Yuuri heard a few snickers and was tempted to join in; Mila was many things, but humble was not one of them.

“But!” Mr. Wagner continued over the laughter, “But you must not assume that you are not deserving of any role given to you. I am positive you will shine here as you have done in the past.”

“Oh,” Mila repeated. She still was making no move to take the libretto Mr Wagner was holding out to her with increasing impatience.

“Miss Babitch, please don’t be shy. You are the best fit for the role.”

“Oh, no,” Mila sighed. “Oh, Mr. Wagner, I am terribly sorry, but, no, I fear I cannot accept this role.”

“What…” Mr. Wagner shook his head. “Of course you can, my dear, trust me. If you have any concerns or fears about conflicting obligations, please talk to me in my office, I am sure we can find a way.”

“No, I…” Mila now folded her hands in front of her and lowered her back.

“Damn, that show demands a snack,” Andreas grumbled. “I should have brought something to eat.”

Mila let out a deep sigh. “I should have said something before, but well. Miss Crispino has talked to you, I am sure, about her own upcoming engagement at the Scala in Milan. Since otherwise you would have paid attention to her with the casting. I should have considered your skilful decision making, then we would not be in this awkward bind…”

Mr. Wagner’s gaze wandered to Sara. His eyes were wide. His skin was pale.

Sara’s shoulders were trembling with what looked like heavily suppressed laughter.

“Well…” Mila shifted her weight on her feet. “Well, you see, at the same time she got her engagement set in stone an offer reached me as well and - and I accepted.”

“Yes!” Yuuri hissed before he could control himself. Oh, yes, this was good, this was brilliant, this was wonderful news! And at least it was too low for Mr. Wagner to register.

Andreas however, did and he looked at him. “You knew of that?”

Yuuri didn’t get to answer that.

“That is quite a surprise,” Mr. Wagner said.

“I know,” Mila said and demurely lowered her head, “and I am very sorry for the inconvenience I am causing you. But I hope you understand and agree with me that the Scala is an offer I cannot refuse, not even compared to anything I can have here.”

“Well…” Mr. Wagner cleared his throat. “I am not sure you are ready… sure, my dear, you are a wonderful singer, very talented, but - I wonder if you are seasoned enough for such a grand stage and in a foreign country too?”

Hadn't Wagner himself just declared Mila perfectly capable of a lead role?

Mila herself still smiled. “Well, one can only rise to challenges by facing them,” she chirped. “Of course, I should have spoken to you right away, but I needed time to make up my mind...”

“Well.” Mr. Wagner sighed. “Congratulations, then. Of course I need to check your contract on how quickly I can let you go.”

“She has the same contract as me,” Sara interjected, “You very often remarked that it would be very easy to release me on the spot. Do so, good sir. Since we have no part in _Fidelio,_ I am sure you will understand that we will prefer to spend our remaining days in Dresden packing up our belongings and redistributing what we will not take with us. Not to mention saying good bye to people, there are quite a few.”

“But...” Mr. Wagner swallowed. “You two are still engaged for _Faust,”_ he then managed.

Mila shrugged. “Only three more nights. We have fine understudies, isn't that right, Mina?”

The young girl next to her blushed deeply under her strawberry blonde hair. “If you say so!”

“High time you get your chance too. It's not fair for us to hog the limelight,” Sara declared. “Good bye!”

It was the end of the discussion; they turned around, looked at them all and then curtsied.

“Thank you all for your warm welcome and your friendship for such a long time,” Sara said.

Mila added, “And thank you for your support and all the lessons you taught me.”

Then, with a smile, they turned and left, their skirts rustling, their steps clicking, their laughter ringing as they went.

They were gone.

They were free.

They were away.

They had been two voices protecting Yuuri, just a little.

And now they were gone.

He looked to Mr. Wagner.

Mr. Wagner looked around. “Well,” he finally said. “Well. May they get what they deserve. Whatever that may be.”

For a moment Yuuri wished for the women to be back. What would he do now, how would he deal with this, how...

He sighed inwardly. Bad thought. Bad line of thought. Mila and Sara had wanted to leave and it was quite impossible to begrudge it to them. But still. But still.

Yuuri still couldn't help that little pang of unease as he listened to them disappear.

Mr. Wagner looked on. Then he turned to Wilhelmina Mix, who had up until now been Sara's understudy for _Faust._ “Well. We'll see.”

The young woman's face faltered in light of such lack of confidence. “I worked very hard on this role. I am sure I will not disappoint.”

Mr. Wagner nodded. “Well then. Miss Mix, I know you know your lines. Miss Berger.”

Their newly minted Marzelline blanched. “Y-yes?”

“Do you know the lines for Röschen?”

The girl swallowed. “I... I listened very intently, I think I... with some practise...”

“Good, change of plans everyone!” Anyone not involved in a scene with Röschen or Kunigunde can go home until tonight, Miss Mix and Miss Berger, please get ready to prepare for those roles, we have an opera to perform!”

He clapped in his hands.

They all looked at each other and then, shuffling, they started to move away and off the stage.

Yuuri looked back to the two women as Mr. Wagner handed Angela Berger a folio that was probably a libretto for _Faust._

This situation was not doing them any favours, he realized. Mr. Wagner had just lost two brilliant singers, one who had been a favourite to the audience and whom, it would be easy to deduce, he had driven away. The other one had been well on her way to become just as beloved too; Mila already had her share of admirers and the crowd had been growing constantly with both _Undine_ and _Faust._ He would have to explain why these two had left all of a sudden and he probably knew that he couldn't accuse the women of flightiness because in that case both their patrons and admirers would be outraged and loudly protest it. He was in a tight spot, having to find a different explanation that was not a semi-outright admission that he had driven Sara away, thus causing Mila to leave as well, considering her very well-known loyalty to her mentor and close friend.

It would be a glorious bonfire and Yuuri was petty enough to look forward to it.

However, he was not petty enough to not pity the girls taking over their roles a little. They had big shoes to fill and only a few hours to grow their feet; it would be enough to deliver a decent performance if they didn't get a serious bout of stage fright, but it would hardly suffice for something outstanding. No, filling in for a beloved singer who had more or less spontaneously decided to throw the towel was not a good start for your solo career. Even if both Angela Berger and Wilhelmina Mix did really well, they'd still be measured up against Sara Crispino and probably – albeit a little less – Mila Babitch. At that point they'd probably lose out on that comparison, no matter how well they did.

Judging by their faces, they knew that. At least Wilhelmina Mix apparently also had decided that she would give this her all, work her backside off and make the most of it.  
By the time she and their _Faust_ were ready to sing she was already smiling again.

She would probably be alright.

Angela Berger hopefully would be too. If not, she might be able to find a place in another theatre to start over without drama getting in the way of her career again.

And Yuuri – well, Yuuri could just pray that Mr. Wagner would refrain from making his life even worse until he finally, finally, finally would leave.

 

The performance of _Faust_ that evening was underwhelming. Kunigunde and Röschen were nervous and focussed on not forgetting any of their lines and not missing any notes. Which they didn't, but that was the extent of it; otherwise they were rather bland, lacking both the passion and the sweet innocent charm Mila and Sara had brought to their roles.

The applause was polite, but the moment the curtain had fallen it died and was replaced by a buzzing murmur that filled the auditorium.

“Well,” Angela Berger said, “that went tits up.”

“Language, there are ladies present,” Johannes Erhardt commented.

“Where? I see only me, Mina and maybe Yuri Plisetsky.” She scrunched her nose. “I should have put more work into it.”

“Same,” Mina grumbled. “I thought I could do better, but...”

“Stage fright,” Erhardt said, clapping both their shoulders. “You got through it, that's something, especially given the circumstances. You'll be better next week and then, afterwards you'll be even better than next week.”

“Well, I hope so.”

“Bah,” Johannes Erhardt shook his head. “We have soloists who screwed up their first try-out for a solo, still can't get through every performance and still remember it afterwards and then went on to be a pretty impressive Rienzi.”

“I thank for the praise and have to refute it,” Yuuri shot back, “by now I do remember my performances after we're done.”

Johannes Erhardt laughed. “And you're still a bundle of nerves on occasion.”

“More than that,” Plisetsky chimed in.

“Given the circumstances, I doubt anyone would blame me,” Yuuri sighed. He looked awkwardly at the girls. He had never really spoken to them before. “But... point stands, you didn't screw up completely. And you did get a bad start, so you made the most of it, so... it will go better next time.”

Angela Berger looked rather sceptical, but Wilhelmina Mix eyes were starting to shine again. “Thank you!” she chirped, straightening her back and raising her arm in something like a salute, “I'll not disappoint you.”

Yuuri was tempted to take a step back in the face of such exuberance, but decided that this would be quite impolite, so he smiled awkwardly some more.

“By the way,” Plisetsky said, “Mila and Sara asked you all to dinner tonight, you know, to say good bye and celebrate their glorious leave from this place. And to apologize for the trouble in your case,” he added towards the girls.

“Thank you,” Angela Berger mumbled, “But I think I'll just go home, get some cheap wine on the way and drink until I forget this day.”

“No, you won't,” Wilhelmina Mix declared, taking her arm. “Getting drunk in company is more fun. Getting drunk with food even more so.”

“I really...”

“They say they pay,” Plisetsky added.

Angela Berger pondered it for a moment and then nodded. “I'm in.”

“Good, then hurry and get out of costume,” Plisetsky said, “I'm starving.”

The prospect of free food and alcohol always worked miracles on any of them and they quickly walked off to their dressing rooms.

“I told Viktor about the invitation,” Plisetsky mumbled on their way. “He wishes you a fun evening and asks if you can pack up some scraps for him.”

Yuuri chuckled. “Let's see if we can.”

He changed back into his street clothes as quickly as he could, trying not to look around, trying not to think too hard about the fact that would probably clear this room out very soon.

It did hurt and the worst was that Yuuri couldn't really tell whether it hurt because he had no say in it or because of something else he didn't quite have the words for.

In any case, he was better off getting out of his costume and the corset, packing it into the closet and quickly getting into his street clothes again.

Mila and Sara were waiting for them all at a side entrance, smiling brightly, which was justified given the circumstances.

Yuuri envied them.

When he arrived, together with Andreas, Johannes Erhardt and both Wilhelmina Mix and Andrea Berger, Mila rushed to him and gave him a tight hug. “Ah, the instigator of good luck for everyone around him!” she proclaimed. Into his ear she whispered, “Thank you, thank you so much! You have no idea...”

Yuuri hugged her back and then held her at arm’s length. “You do know that you will pay me back in food and wine now, right?”

“A deed I am fully prepared to commit myself to,” Mila chirped.

“We picked a good place. Not too expensive though,” Sara added. “We still need money to find a new place in Milan, after all and I suppose apartments in acceptable vicinity to the Scala are not cheap.”

“If need be you'll squat in the attic,” Plisetsky joked, “You'll make do. Food now!”

They headed off and down the streets towards a place that looked like it had found a spot on the pricing scale that was comfortably and firmly right in between the restaurants Phichit liked to dine and wine Yuuri at and the pubs he and the other chorus singers frequented for dinner.

“Hello, here we are!” Mila called.

Apparently they had used their free morning to make preparations about the evening; they got a nice, big table all for themselves, in a corner a bit away from the main room that was already holding several patrons.

It was bright in here, white-washed walls, gilt candelabras and a crystal chandelier hanging from a high ceiling. It gave a stark, but pleasant contrast to the dark furniture. Definitely a lot more upscale than what most of them were used to.

Apparently not upscale enough to have their dinners arranged and set up with entire courses, though, which was a comfort to Yuuri; restaurants that served courses where both too complicated and too expensive for him to bother.

They were served a nicely chilled, dry white wine and Sara sighed deeply. “This is one thing I will not miss. Forgive me, you all, but you Germans are entirely incapable of making good wine. It's good for adding honey and spices, but otherwise...” Nonetheless she took a hearty sip of her glass.

“I'll be the judge of that for myself,” Mila said.

“Have to agree with Sara,” Yuuri commented. “Sorry, but German alcohol is only drinkable when heated and infused with spices. Or when it comes fizzy and sparkling and was copied from the French.” He took a sip of his wine. “Why do you like to make people cough after drinking?!”

“It's a sign of quality,” Angela Berger said with a haughty smile in the corner of her lips.

“They have hardly any body!” he argued, “I mean, this... it makes me cough but otherwise I have no idea what it tastes like, it's... it's nothing!”

“Yes, it's probably better suited for summer, I admit – or maybe it comes with chicken, Mila, do you have any idea?”

“Entirely your choice, but I recommend both the chicken leg with onion and the stuffed eggplant, they are both delicious. The pork cutlets are also fine, and the goulash is a delight,” Sara chatted on.

Yes, that sounded about right. Stable, not too fancy fare in itself, but probably prepared with greater care than in a cheap inn, probably up to the standard of a very good housewife in a wealthy, bourgeois home.

A serving wench came, a broad, sturdy woman, and took orders which mostly consisted of Sara's recommendation and sometimes one of her own, when she was asked.

Then she went away again and they went on to drink their wine. At the very least, it would fulfil its primary function, Yuuri could already tell long before the effects of the alcohol were setting in.

“Why are you heading for the Scala all of a sudden anyways?” Johannes Erhardt asked. “I am happy for you two, of course, but...” He shook his head. “Well, it was a little out of the blue.”

“Yes,” Sara nodded. “Well, it was the funniest thing. A while ago, just as out of the blue, I received a letter from the head director of the Scala, making me a rather generous offer for a contract. A guaranteed number of solos, with very generous payment. I would have taken it one way or another, but this man also asked what else he could do for my comfort. I sent him a very short list.”

“How many things did you demand?” Plisetsky asked.

Sara arched an eyebrow. “I do not demand. I was brought up a proper lady. A lady does not demand. A lady asks politely and if need be, makes it abundantly clear that bad things will happen if her asking is not complied with.”

Plisetsky laughed.

“Also, two things only. What sort of greedy monster are you taking me for, boy?” She took a sip of wine. “So, a short while later, another letter arrived, with a contract for me and another one for Mila and a detailed plan for our journey to Milan, including a list of places where we could stay for the night.” She took another sip of wine. “He is really very charming, at least on paper. Probably in person too, I'd wager.”

“Head director of the Scala...” Johannes Erhardt nodded. Then he jerked up. “Isn't that your father?” he asked Yuuri.

“Of sorts...” Yuuri mumbled. “Yeah, he is, I mean...” He swallowed and finally said, “As much as he can be, considering I'm-”

“Stuttering, stammering and mumbling,” Sara said. “Otherwise, I do think we already got a good idea what sort of person he will show himself as.” She smiled into her glass.

Andreas looked at Yuuri. “Ha! I knew you had something to do with it! You knew about this beforehand!”

“I...” Yuuri hid his smile in his wine glass. “I might have had an inkling. And I might have given Celestino a hint about asking Sara for her conditions to accept a contract with the Scala and that he might get not one, but two very good sopranos out of that bargain, so...”

Mila laughed. “I swear, Yuuri, someday I will find a way to repay you. I will. Just you wait.”

Yuuri raised his glass, emptied it and refilled it from one of the large jugs the serving wench had put on the table. “I will and I am looking forward to it.”

Their food came and for a while there was hungry, chewy silence.

It was a rather merry evening in general, Mila and Sara – occasionally supported by Johannes Erhardt and Plisetsky – entertaining them with stories about several incidents they sometimes remembered, albeit only partially and differently, sometimes had taken part in, sometimes had not been at the theatre yet to witness.

By the end of the evening they all were a little less drunk than they had expected, due to some unspoken, never explicitly agreed upon agreement to stick to whatever wine Mila and Sara were ordering for them all, but they were well-fed and Yuuri had managed to sneak some cutlets into a kerchief and then the kerchief into his jacket. He later managed to repeat the trick with some butterstreusel.

But at last, after food and some cake for dessert and quite a lot of wine they had to get up at last and bid the establishment – which was already mostly abandoned and dark – a good night before they walked out.

“So,” Mila said when they were out on the street again. “So. This is it, then. We're officially out. Dressing rooms have been cleared and handed over to our successors, may they rise to fame, success and glory.”

Wilhelmina Mix straightened her back. “Yes!”

They shook hands with the men of the chorus – Andreas almost wept as he bid his farewells to his two idols.

At last, they hugged first Angela Berger and Wilhelmina Mix and then the male soloists.

When it was Yuuri's turn to hug them – as the last one to do so – Mila whispered, “I owe you one, I owe you so much, you have no idea, don't you...” She faltered for a moment and then continued, “You keep your head up, yes? Don't you dare letting this ass get to you, you hear me?”

“Not planning to.” Yuuri chuckled. “Thank you.”

“We will tell your father a good deal about you,” Sara said as she pulled him into a hug. “He will hear about your great improvements. And he will surely wish for you to come back to the Scala and give you a good position whenever you show up. Hopefully soon.”

“I hope so too,” Yuuri answered, “thank you. Don't exaggerate too much, though or he'll believe someone has killed me and taken my place.”

Sara laughed. “See you soon in Milan.”

They left and Yuuri turned, heading back to the theatre. Surely Viktor would want the food Yuuri had scavenged for him and he would also like to hear how the evening had gone. And Yuuri wanted to tell him, he wanted to tell him about how sometimes he had featured rather prominently in the stories Sara and Mila had told and he wanted to tell him how Plisetsky had laughed.

_See you soon in Milan._

He wanted to tell him how Sara and Mila were looking forward to him coming back home too and he wanted to imagine with him their faces when they could reveal that Viktor had, in fact, not died.

He wanted to go home. He wanted it to be a home this time around, with friends and a place he felt safe at and with the people he loved.

He would get through whatever was to come now. He would make it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... the girls are free. The last chapter is written. Celebratory fizzy goodness from a Saxonian vinyard has been drunk and my beta relentlessly cheered me on on the last few pages. In May the big, big editing will start, so if you are interested in watching me change names, re-write stuff and occasionally replace scenes entirely, chat to me and whatever else, let me know, I'd really like to do a few chapters in livestream.
> 
> (Also, there'll be a bonus story up soon, to help me get over the loss of my two ladies.)


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Wagner gets trolled. Something akin to plot happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, writing this was one of the most fun experiences I had, I just... I was cackling like a goblin through most of it.

Chapter 28

 

Mila and Sara left and the theatre was a little quieter for it. They had promised Yuuri, Plisetsky and Johannes Erhardt to stay in touch, but so far there had been no news yet. Well, in the best case they had just arrived and there had not yet been time for them to write back home.

Sometimes he wondered if Celestino knew what he had gotten himself into, but otherwise the days were blissfully uneventful with Yuuri singing in the chorus and – with a strangely stony heart, unfeeling and still so, so heavy – clearing out his dressing room, Plisetsky grumbling about this not being permanent but otherwise keeping quiet and Viktor working on his opera. Occasionally he gave them pieces to sing, duets or arias, with each other or with another character he was explaining to them that was the Elven King, a threatening, domineering presence of an eerie, glassy clear tenor.

“Maybe I will put an alto in that role,” Viktor mused, “Or a mezzo soprano.”

“Is it still an Elven King then?” Plisetsky asked.

“Is a fairy,” Viktor shrugged, “They are not concerned with how we see man and woman. You play a water spirit. Usually female too and-” He smiled. “I worked the music so a soprano can sing it too. If anyone ever wants this to be an obvious love story without being deemed immoral.”

“You're Russian, some people will consider this thing immoral just for that,” Plisetsky said.

“Even less reason for me to try and appease anyone, would you not agree?” Viktor chuckled.

Sometimes there was the role of a woman, the sister of the man that was Yuuri's role. Sometimes there also was a priest, sung in a full, comforting, sometimes hard bass that showed that Viktor had clearly had Johannes Erhardt in mind. A lead for the human part of the chorus was held in a deep, careful baritone that would be perfect for Andreas and Yuuri delighted in that knowledge.

Also the Elven King had two impish minions Viktor was of a mind to cast with younger singers and thus had kept rather simple in their melodies.

The chorus numbers were mainly sung by the Fair Folk side of the story. It would probably consist of tenors and whatever female singers there were available. Viktor had mentioned that he would want for his opera to make its debut in Dresden. It was quite unfeasible as things were now, but if it came to pass the Royal Court Theatre would not have enough suitable voices. Mr. Wagner would have to send out calls for new singers, accept new members for the chorus. Dresden in itself was an acclaimed house and would have no trouble attracting new voices, but how many would stay for long enough to truly, really work with them? Not long, not with Richard Wagner at the helm.

Occasionally Yuuri still accompanied Plisetsky to his meetings, but since neither Plisetsky needed supervision nor Yuuri something to distract him from his own misery, that had become rather infrequent too. Not to mention that Yuuri could do without sharp looks shot into his general direction, thank you very much.

If Plisetsky or Otto Becker were being shadowed or followed by anyone they either didn't notice or refused to speak about it.

It was all so mundane, so trivial or at least it seemed like it was to Yuuri that he hardly paid any attention to it. Or maybe that was because Yuuri had not much energy to spare to focus on these things and he had even less energy to put into words why. There was just the lull, numb feeling that it had something to do with this place, with Dresden, maybe with the theatre, maybe with Richard Wagner, but most definitely a lot with Yuuri himself.

The most interesting – or at least the most entertaining – development since Mila's and Sara's grand exit was the fact that Richard Wagner seemed to have hit a spot of bad luck recently.

Hardly a day went by without him being almost hit with crates falling over or a lamp dropping in front of him or his hat going missing.

“Huh,” Johannes Erhardt mused after such things had gone on for a little while, “one could think The Nikiforov is angry.”

Yuuri had to bite his tongue to not burst out into laughter. “The Nikiforov,” he repeated.

“Our house ghost, you know, the poor lad who killed himself a while ago. He was good friends with Sara. And he's been quite quiet for such a long time.”

“Don't tell me you seriously believe in ghosts,” Yuuri mumbled.

Johannes Erhardt shrugged. “Who knows, my boy, who knows. There are things between heaven and earth... and maybe he's angry to see his good friend go, angry enough to actually act the part of a house ghost at last.”

The hat re-appeared a day later, filled with half-cracked eggs.

On another day another batch of eggs was stuffed into the pockets of Mr. Wagner's coat. Apparently Viktor had decided that giving a display of incredible pettiness was the next best thing to do, since dropping chandeliers on Mr. Wagner's head was definitely out of the question.

“I so won't bring him any more eggs,” Plisetsky grumbled one awfully rainy day when Mr. Wagner had been forced to take off his sopping, soaked shoes and socks and had put them on later – only to find them, as well, filled with cold, slimy, raw eggs. “What a waste. If I had known that I wouldn't have picked the freshest I could find.”

And when he repeated so during breakfast the next day Viktor without even an ounce of shame, shrugged. “It will be lent soon. What do you want from me? Eggs are cheap.”

Otherwise, though, Plisetsky remained surprisingly calm during Viktor's antics, not condoning them, but most certainly not demanding Viktor should let it be.

“A few months ago you would have yelled at me for even having this idea,” Viktor said some day, after Plisetsky had once more shrugged and declared him childish, “What happened?”

“Maybe.” Again, Plisetsky shrugged. “So, what about it? I mean, you won't stop no matter what I do and I can't use this sort of anger in any good way. Totally useless.”

“Indeed,” Viktor hummed as he cleared away the leftovers from dinner, “You know how I always have been quite unimpressed with your fits.”

“Yes, very much,” Plisetsky grumbled, “And besides, you could do a lot worse and-”

“Yes, that sounds about right,” Viktor hummed, “but someone does not want me to and since I love him very much, I-”

“Will let me leave now,” Plisetsky added quickly, getting up and grabbing his jacket, “I really don't need to see you being all cutesy with each other.”

“Instead you'll be cutesy yourself?” Viktor laughed.

“I am not!” Plisetsky called over his shoulder and then he was gone.

Yuuri shook his head. “One day you will learn to not tease him so much.”

“Aw, but that would be so boring!” Viktor complained, “Would it not, please, say you would find it boring too!”

“Maybe a little. After a long time in which I would greatly appreciate the peace and quiet.”

Viktor didn't laugh. “He is right, though,” he said.

“About what?” Yuuri asked, “not being cutesy? I could hardly agree more.”

“About me showing a tremendous amount of restraint,” Viktor said. “I am holding back a lot. If it was up to me-”

“You would drop a chandelier on Richard Wagner's head,” Yuuri sighed, “I know.”

Viktor shook his head. “No, no, you and Yakov are right. It would be a pity about the good chandelier. No, no, I would drag him up on the roof-”

“That would require you standing in front of him,” Yuuri felt like pointing out.

Viktor's face fell flat for a moment, but he collected himself again. “I would lure him up on the roof,” he said, “and then push him off. In the middle of the night, so nobody is disturbed. Or would come and help him. It is a nice distance too. If he does not break his neck he would not die instantaneously, but rather have serious internal bleeding. Maybe he would drown in his own blood.”

Yuuri made a face. “Stick to eggs in his hat, please. You know how I feel about you showing homicidal tendencies.”

Viktor chuckled. “Yes, I know. Sorry, dear. Can I make it up to you?”

 

Spring sneaked into the city with soft, soft steps, slowly starting to thaw snow and ice that were still in place.

Lent came and the theatre was dark for the next few weeks; no ballet, no concerts, no stage plays, no opera. Forty days of quiet and self-reflection for everyone, especially for the theatre-loving people of Dresden who more often than not loved to avoid anything as heavy and hard as self-reflection, even – or maybe especially – when it was presented to them in form of fine entertainment.

For those providing this fine entertainment, things looked a little different. Easter would see a ballet based on Goethe's Werther, a staging of Nathan the Wise (a choice much scoffed at by Mr. Wagner, but he was not in charge of the non-musical stage plays yet and Yuuri prayed that it may remain that way) and of course the opening night of  _ Fidelio. _

Everything needed to be prepared and worked at. Not to mention that any other person would still go on and about their profession regardless whether their diet and their entertainment were severely restricted.

The theatre was dark to the audience and for two weeks practically dead. Two weeks. Two weeks of peace, quiet and boredom, and it was a relief when the last day of it finally came.

“Urgh. Can't believe I'm actually glad to see Wagner again tomorrow,” Yuuri sighed.

“I cannot believe it either,” Viktor hummed, smiling into his book. Surprisingly – or maybe not, given the circumstances of his life – he was a lot less affected by the general boredom than Yuuri was when there was no work for him to put his mind to, nothing to focus on, nothing to struggle with.

Quite the opposite: Viktor was grinning, Yuuri could see it over the rim of his book, he was actively chuckling and squirming.

Not to mention that he was constantly glancing over to Yuuri just to break out into yet another giggling fit.

At last, Yuuri relented. “Alright, what's the matter?” he asked.

“Oh.” Viktor paused and seemed to consider one answer or another, but then – predictably – just chuckled. “It is really nothing.”

“Obviously,” Yuuri chuckled, “that's why you are so extremely calm and collected. Not at all excited about something I can tell that.”

Viktor tried and failed to hide his grin behind his book and Yuuri shook his head. “Tell me,” he said, a little more demanding than he had planned to, “Come on, you want to tell me, I can tell you want to tell me, so tell me!”

“Hm, hm,” Viktor purred, grinning and Yuuri grumbly realized that he had acted just the way Viktor had hoped he would.

Damn it.

“Or... maybe you really don't, fine then.” Yuuri shrugged. “In that case I won't pester you.”

“What?” Viktor blinked.

“If you don't want to tell me, then that's alright, really.” Yuuri stretched and made himself comfortable on the chaise-lounge. “You will tell me when you want to.”

Viktor stared at him, Yuuri could feel it and it was glorious.

He stretched and angled himself to reach for one of the books that lay in their usual messy pile around their second-favourite resting place, grabbed one and buried his nose in it.

“What...” Viktor asked. “Are you serious?”

“Of course.” Yuuri turned a page, only to realize that it was written in Cyrillic and that he could barely decipher a word, let alone understand enough of it to actively enjoy reading.

Nonetheless, he kept the book in his hands. There was no way he would let Viktor know.

Viktor nodded slowly. “Ah. I see.”

There was silence in which Yuuri tried very hard – and probably succeeded, at least he hoped so – to look very invested into his book of which he understood nothing more than the occasional Как дела? or нет or sometimes a Водка.

“You still do want to know, though, right?” Viktor asked, voice strangely flat, “I know you do. I can tell.”

Yuuri suppressed a chuckle. “Yes. Yes, I do want to know, but as I said, if you don't want to tell I won't pry.”

“I see,” Viktor said, voice a little less flat than before.

“Good.”

“You do want to know.”

“Yes.”

“I will not tell, though.”

Yuuri shrugged. “Which is my bad luck, but by all means, do so.”

Viktor hummed in disgruntlement and Yuuri felt inspired to ask, “I will find out though, I hope?”

“Oh, yes!” There it was again, the sparkly giddiness in his voice, “Yes, you will, oh, just you wait, it will be wonderful!”

“When?”

Viktor giggled through his teeth, from the back of his mouth. “Ehehehe. Soon, soon, ehehehe, it will be glorious! Oh, just you wait for tomorrow, you will love it!”

He was grinning, bouncing slightly on the chaise-lounge, hair flipping up and down with the movement, his eye wide as a child's at the prospect of birthday or Christmas presents.

Yes, next year he most definitely would make sure to celebrate Christmas with Viktor, just to see that.

Also now Yuuri actually _did_ want to know what Viktor had planned, not that he would have ever admitted that.

At least tomorrow was not too long off anymore.

 

But even when tomorrow came Yuuri still had to wait.

Going to rehearsals again was a relief; it was good to be working again, to focus on singing his lines properly and – yes, even when his focus was turned towards “avoiding Mr. Wagner's unreasonable anger”, that at least meant that it was somewhere and that his thoughts didn't dawdle unnecessarily on what the future might hold in store for him.

If he had hoped that this might be easier now that he had no solo role anymore, he was in for a rather bad surprise when they all gathered on stage with Mr. Feltsman in front of them – and Mr. Wagner down in one of the cushy, red-velvet-trimmed chair, looking up to them.

“Good morning, everybody, how nice to see you all.”

“What is he doing here?” Andreas grumbled, “We're still Mr. Feltsman's job. Are we not? Something's changed during last week?”

Yuuri shrugged. “Blow me.”

“You got a girlfriend to do that.”

“Very funny - Mr. Feltsman!” he asked as the old badger was passing them.

He turned to Yuuri, looked at him and then sighed deeply. “Have no idea. But can guess.” He glared down to Mr. Wagner, who smiled like he had no concern in the world and waved to them. “Mr. Feltsman, I do hope you have no objections? I think it is high time I watched you work with the chorus. I should have done so quite a while ago, but well, you can imagine the workload I had.”

Mr. Feltsman breathed out heavily, but then sighed. His shoulders sagged. “If you wish.”

Mr. Wagner wished and so Mr. Wagner did.

Yuuri wished there was something he could do, but well, he was a chorus singer, Mr. Wagner was head director and Mr. Feltsman did not seem to have the energy for an extended argument.

All of a sudden, Viktor's offer regarding chandeliers being dropped appeared a lot more tempting and a lot less irrational.

They started.

It was the first round of their _Fidelio_ rehearsal and – well it could have gone better, he admitted. But it _was_ the first time they were going through this, so Mr. Feltsman left it with some grunted directions when he was not happy with something in their big, long number, which they were going through five times, each time with different singers singing the small solo parts of Prisoner One and Two, to find out who would go well with it.

On the upside, since _Fidelio_ was lacking any extended chorus parts this meant that they could put just the more focus on the few bits they had.

They listened to Georgi's piano music swelling as they, the prisoners, most of them incarcerated with unjust severity, were finally allowed their first steps in the sunlight after a long, long time of imprisonment. “O welche Lust, in freier Luft den Atem leicht zu heben!” they sighed, “nur hier, nur hier ist Leben! Der Kerker eine Gruft.”

“Wir wollen mit Vertrauen auf Gottes Hilfe bauen!” a tenor sang.

“Stop!”

They all fell silent.

Georgi's pioano play died.

Mr. Wagner stood in front of his chair, looking up to them with disgust on his face. “This is terrible! You, you... can you even sing?!”

Mr. Feltsman scowled at him. “Is my chorus, you have no say here. Stop talking to my singers! Now!”

“And who of us is head director?” Mr. Wagner looked at them all with evident displeasure. “You!” he repeated, “You there, you!” With that he pointed towards the general direction of the singer.

The tenor flinched. “Theodor Meiser?”

“Why are you asking me, idiot?” Mr. Wagner snapped, “And who told you to do that part?”

The poor lad flinched once more. “Well, nobody, but...”

“Exactly!” Mr. Wagner nodded empathetically. “Nobody, and when you're not told to sing, you will not sing, got it!”

Once more the man flinched. Then he nodded. “Yes, Mr. Wagner.”

“Good. But for good measure, don't sing, you sound like a half-dead mouse someone decided to step on. Who hired you anyways?”

“I started a month ago.” The man swallowed. “And I'd... if I may, I don't think I feel well. I might need a day's rest.”

Well, Yuuri thought numbly, at the very least it was not him. At the very least he had not sung in a too notable fashion, at the very least Mr. Wagner saw no reason to pay any sort of attention to him, that was good, that was good, that had to be good.

Mr. Wagner pursed his lips. “By all means, do so. I would in that case recommend a very extended leave. And maybe another profession.”

The young man opened his mouth in something like protest. Then looked at Mr. Feltsman as if asking for help, but Mr. Feltsman looked away.

Even paler now he nodded curtly. “Good day then.” And with that he turned around and then – just like that – left.

Yuuri wished he could feel anything for him, be it admiration for his guts or pity for him having lost his job. He was only glad that it wasn't him.

Mr. Feltsman fumed in silence.

“Alright, from the top, Berger, you're Prisoner Number two I suppose?”

The young bass shrugged.

“Good, for our disastrous Number One... someone from the mid-section.”

Yuuri felt Andreas jab him in the side. “You!”

“No,” he hissed back, “forget it, he'll take a hammer to me and smash me and you know it as well as I do.”

“Yuuri, really, you could...”

And get into even more hot water? “No.”

The music started again and they hummed to it, swaying their voices back and forth, up and down.

“O welche Lust, in freier Luft den Atem leicht zu heben! Nur hier, nur hier ist Leben! Der Kerker-“ Andreas once more jabbed Yuuri into the side that he yelped.

“eine Gruft!”

Mr. Wagner looked to them.

Yuuri shot an annoyed glance at Andreas. “Wir wollen mit Vertrauen Auf Gottes Hilfe bauen!” he then sang, relief washing through his voice of his unexpectedly found freedom. “Die Hoffnung flüstert sanft mir zu: Wir werden frei, wir finden Ruh!”

Mr. Wagner did not yell for them to stop, so apparently it was alright this time. That man really should make up his mind.

“O Himmel! Rettung! Welch ein Glück! O Freiheit! Kehrst du zurück?” The others of the chorus cheered and Berger the bass, demanded with gravitas, “Sprecht leise! Haltet euch zurück! Wir sind belauscht mit Ohr und Blick.”

“Sprecht leise! Haltet euch zurück!” they repeated, “Wir sind belauscht mit Ohr und Blick!” The sudden mindfulness of potentially being observed didn't last long, though; they quicky forgot all about it, marvelling again of their freedom. “O welche Lust, in freier Luft den Atem leicht zu heben! Nur hier, nur hier ist Leben.”

And then broke back into their worry. “Sprecht leise! Haltet euch zurück! Wir sind belauscht mit Ohr und Blick-”

In that moment Rocco the prison master and Fidelio would show up, so they died down.

Mr. Wagner sighed. “Well then, Mr. Katsuki. I suppose there's no harm in you singing the First Prisoner, your voice is mediocre enough.”

“Ouch,” Andreas grumbled. “That was low.”

Yuuri took a deep breath. “I will work very hard to maintain it.” Then he whispered, “Expected anything else?”

“He called you mediocre.”

“Yes.” Yuuri made a face. “Which I am not, so I now have to tone down a little, so I'll be left alone.”

“Sucks,” Andreas commented.

“Yep.”

They sang through it once more and then went on to work on the other parts, which were shorter and only there to be offset by the solo roles.

And finally, finally it ended and Yuuri had survived it. He turned to Mr. Feltsman. “If you find someone more suitable for that ditty, I'll gladly hand it over.”

Mr. Feltsman sighed. “Is nice from you. But pointless. But if want to try. Do. You will be away soon, right?” he asked softly.

“What?”

“Vitya. Talk a lot, the boy. Is happy about it.” Now Mr. Feltsman smiled. “Good for you. Good for me, can leave this...” He gestured around. “Mess.”

“Oh.” Yuuri swallowed. “Where would you go?”

“Eh. Who knows. Am old. Deserve some rest.”

Yuuri chuckled. “The southern sun is pretty good for old bones I hear.”

Mr Feltsman shrugged and walked into the wings. Yuuri followed him and watched as the soloists lined up for rehearsal, waiting for Mr. Wagner to give his commands.

“Angela, dear, we should begin with you!” he said.

Angela Berger – not related to their young bass – nodded and stepped forward.

“Let's start out with-”

The door swung open.

“Mr. Wagner! I hope I am not disturbing your rehearsal!” called a voice and they turned around.

All of a sudden everything, every commotion, every chatter died.

The king and a small entourage – consisting of his wife, his sister-in-law (the prince being notably absent) and a few courtiers waltzed in, looking around in curiosity.

Yuuri suspected that the theatre had to look very different when only seen from the royal box.

Mr. Wagner's eyes grew wide and he quickly made a deep, deep bow. “Your majesty! Your highnesses! My lords and ladies!”

He turned around and stared at his visible soloists.

Quickly Angela Berger and August Stadler paid their respects.

The king smiled broadly. “Of course it means not much, given my lack of expertise. But I love this concept you made! So delightful! The music looks impressive, I cannot wait to hear it.”

Yuuri could see Mr. Wagner’s shoulders sag in what looked like confusion, at least from behind.

And in the same moment, curiously, Mr. Feltsman seemed to straighten up, watching the process with gleaming, sharp eyes.

“What?” Angela Berger asked.

From behind Mr. Wagner’s shoulders looked like they continued to sag.

The gleam in Mr. Feltsman's eyes grew. “Might not leave right now,” he then amended.

“This is fun. This will be good.”

“You knew about this?” Yuuri asked.

“Of course.” Mr. Feltsman chuckled. “But did not think king act so quickly. Thought maybe a few more months. Not fun prospect.”

“Do I want to know how you know?” Yuuri asked dryly.

“Vitya talk much when excited. And happy. You should know.”  Mr. Feltsman commented and Yuuri couldn’t help but chuckle.

Mr. Wagner was confused, Mr. Feltsman gleeful like a crow and Viktor was inexplicably happy from one day to another.

No matter what it was it was bound to be delightful to him.

“Too sad Mila and Sara not here to see this,” Mr. Feltsman sighed, just as the king said, “And I admire your roll call. Rather unusual. You were always so dead set against casting all the roles with newcomers, but how come I never heard most of these singers before?”

What?

Mr. Feltsman looked like he was about to burst out into laughter. Or song. Or maybe both.

“Are they here?" the queen asked, “It would surely be alright to see the new and rising stars of this house at the dawn of their fame.”

Now the mumbling in Yuuri’s back grew louder. A few of the remaining chorus singers stepped a bit forward in an attempt to sneak a peek at their illustrious visitors who were upsetting Mr. Wagner so obviously.

The king, Yuuri could see as he was peering through the curtain, looked around with an air of confusion that mirrored the one around him on stage.

“It seems,” he said, “you haven't informed anyone yet so far?”

It was silent for a moment, very, very, very silent.

Then Mr. Wagner cleared his throat. “I figured,” he said slowly, “I figured that Your Majesty surely would love to deliver the news in person to us all, if you found this project to be to your liking? I hoped it would be a nice surprise for the singers.”

The king smiled mildly, but on his thin, long face, it looked more like a leer. “How kind of you. Who is still here? Would anyone like to come out?”

Around Yuuri there was much shuffling and people were slowly stepping out on stage to peer at their illustrious visitors who were bearing so strange news.

“There you are. Wonderful. Isn't it wonderful?”

“Very wonderful,” the queen agreed dryly. “So many wonderful, talented people in one room, one could almost think we are at a theatre.”

Yuuri bit back a laugh.

“Your Majesty – since this – this – project is so much to your liking, then,” Mr. Wagner cleared his throat, clearly feeling very unwell at this point, “would you like to elaborate on that matter?”

“Of course.” The king smiled. “I would come up to you then? I so dislike yelling all the time at you when you so clearly haven't done anything to deserve it.”

There was a round of nervous laughter rippling through them as the king and his entourage turned left and actually found the little side door that led into the backstage area.

Then they heard steps and – yes. The king was on their stage.

Also the queen and princess sister-in-law were on stage with him and behind them their courtiers.

“I think we should not go to that pub from yesterday anymore,” said Andreas. “They're putting something into their beer.”

“So many of you here, wonderful. Probably some of those playing and singing in the new opera are present as well, then?”

“Surely, surely,” Mr. Wagner said.

“A few days ago,” the king said now, pleasure evident on his stern features that Yuuri was of a mind to agree with Andreas about the beer, “a letter reached me, attached to a libretto and sheet music.”

Oh.

“The letter began by asking me to respect that the artist wishes to remain anonymous, despite that not being customary.”

Oh.  _ Oh _ . Yuuri's eyes darted to Mr. Feltsman, who more and more resembled an old crow, lips pursed in a futile attempt to suppress a grin.

“Furthermore the letter detailed that Mr. Wagner already was willing to produce and stage this opera I received, but that the artist was of a mind that someone so important and busy as him should not have to bother with the scribblings and tinkering of some unimportant, unknown novice – if you ask me, calling this – this!” And with this he held up a very thick folder, undoubtedly the famed and fabled libretto – “scribblings and tinkering is ridiculously humble, you will find when you take a look at it. Also a very circumspect and considerate person, as far as I can tell, wishing to put responsibility for this production with Yakov Feltsman – ah, there you are, the man of the moment!”

Mr. Feltsman smiled his crow-like smile. “A great honour, Your Majesty. Great honour.”

“We all know the good work you did during Mr. Wagner's absence. The _Undine_ was rather memorable. Not to mention how you worked on the _Magic Flute –_ Mr. Wagner, I am sure you have heard about how well-received the _Magic Flute_ was?”

“Yes,” Mr. Wagner said, “thankfully a lot better than the _Vampyr_ as I recall?”

Mr. Feltsman shrugged to that. “ _Vampyr_ not good opera in my mind. Too...” He waved his hands. “Who wants hear about blood drinking monsters seducing maidens. Who wants to hear about silly girls falling for monsters and who wants to hear about monster being complex and relatable? What is next, we make monster sparkle?”

Some of the female chorus singers giggled at the image and Mr. Feltsman smiled at the vindication.

Mr. Wagner shrugged. “One should be able to make even less-than-ideal material work out just fine, but maybe that is just me having too high standards.”

“High standards fine,” Mr. Feltsman shrugged, “if not too high to never be fulfilled.”

The king listened to them with something that looked like long-suffering amusement.

“ Of course, you would have made something memorable of the  _ Vampyr _ , I am sure,” the queen said with a smile full of restrained affection.

Mr. Wagner looked only mildly pacified.

“Are the suggested two lead singers here?”, the king now asked.

Mr. Wagner looked around in ever growing confusion and frustration and it fell upon Mr. Feltsman to happily smile and nod. “They are - Yura!”

“Oi!” Plisetsky raised a hand and stepped out in front of everyone.

Yuuri grinned as Mr. Wagner's face fell even more. Mean-spirited as it was, he definitely could get used to that sight.

“Katsuki!”

Oh.

Yuuri took a breath.

“Wasn't he the Rienzi in Summer?” the queen asked.

It was strange. Yuuri should have expected that. It was Viktor's opera and Viktor had been explicit about his ideal casting.

In short, this was a lead role Yuuri should have expected to fall into his lap.

Being referenced to as one of the two lead singers was strange nonetheless and Yuuri had to actively steel himself before he raised a hand and wiggled himself out of the bulk of singers. “Uh. Here.”

The king smiled. “Ah, I see, I am not the only one remembering your stellar Rienzi. Isn't that right, Mr. Wagner?”

Yuuri wasn't entirely sure whether the king really was that oblivious or whether he was secretly enjoying Mr. Wagner squirming as much as Mr. Feltsman and – admittedly – Yuuri himself did. He imagined it fondly to be the latter, while embracing the possibility of it to be the former.

“Whole cast is around,” Mr. Feltsman commented. “Mina Mix, you come out please?”

The girl turned beet red. “What?!”

“Role is an alto,” Mr. Feltsman said. “You are low for soprano. Will do.”

The girl looked around with big, almost terrified eyes.

Angela Berger next to her made a face.

“Low soprano,” Mr. Feltsman said once more. “That is why you are Leonore. Low soprano makes for convincing woman posing as man. Right, Mr. Wagner? That is why picked her?”

Mr. Wagner, pale as milk, nodded. “Yes. Yes, that is why, since we are currently running a bit low on anything resembling an alto...”

“I wonder why,” Andreas grumbled.

“Angela Berger,” Mr. Feltsman continued.

Yuuri strongly suspected that Viktor had originally intended these roles, whatever they were, for Mila and Sara, but well, then Mr. Wagner had happened, Milan had happened, their lovely ladies showing their ability to be incredible, wonderful divas had happened and Viktor had been forced to look at some new voices.

Angela Berger's face lit up as she heard her name. “Oh!”

Mr. Feltsman nodded. “Fine, high voice. Clear. Good for fairy.”

“So we're doing a fairy tale,” Andreas mumbled next to Yuuri.

“Erhardt!” Mr. Feltsman belted, “You priest. Show dignity!”

“Yessir!” Johannes Erhardt belted back.

Mr. Feltsman raised an eyebrow. “Still only funny when Georgi does it,” he then judged and there was a little laughter around them.

The king smiled at this, apparently very happy to be the bringer of such good news and listened on as Mr. Feltsman called out a few more singers to step forward and please accept their parts.

When he was done there was a veritable row of voices lined up, faces betraying a mixture of confusion and excitement.

“Well,” Mr. Wagner cleared his throat. “This is all very nice, really. Lovely news. So many chances for fresh singers to earn their spurs. But...” He shot a very pointed look around.

“Oh dear,” princess Amalie Auguste said, “your Majesty, I am afraid we came at an inopportune time.”

The king looked around. “Oh, yes, of course – we interrupted the rehearsal. How silly of us. Apologies.” He smiled up to them. “Please, by all means, please go on, we would very much love to watch you.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Mr. Wagner took a deep breath and then turned around. “You heard His Majesty. Everyone back on their position – Mr. Feltsman, I am sure you want to escort His Majesty to their seats?”

Mr. Feltsman smiled with far more teeth involved than was necessary and took a bow. “Surely, the Majesties would like to watch from box?”

“The pit seats have quite some charm,” Princess Amalie Auguste remarked with a smile. “Your Majesty, let's watch from there. We can see the singers up close.”

The king sent a longing look to his box directly above the stage, but then nodded. “That sounds like a wonderful idea, my dear. Mr. Feltsman, please, lead the way?”

Mr. Feltsman made a stiff bow. “Of course.

The queen didn't look happy about having to sit in the cheapest row for a change, but apparently her sister had a lot more influence with her husband than she herself.

“Well then.” Mr. Wagner cleared his throat. “Everyone back on position!”

Yuuri and the other chorus singers retreated back into the wings and then he watched the rehearsals proceed.

Mr. Wagner was keenly aware of the king's presence, that much was obvious; his corrections and remarks were so gentle and kind and sugar-coated that Yuuri suspected Angela Berger and Mina Mix would pick them out of their hair tonight and use them to sweeten their tea.

But it was helpful. He advised Mina to correct her posture – oh, Yuuri felt a wave of nostalgia – told Angela to not have her hands flutter around and distract her from singing, worked attentively with the other singers on their hiccups and was all in all quite effective. As effective as Mr. Feltsman with a lot less grumpiness involved.

Yuuri wondered how he would have evolved if Mr. Wagner had been like that with him. Or how Viktor would have fared.

Nonetheless – he was sweating profusely under the king's watchful eye and it made Yuuri grin.

Andreas next to him mirrored it. “Good to see him suffer, eh?”

“Are you suggesting I am mean-spirited and petty enough to wish him bad?” Yuuri asked back, but when Andreas raised an eyebrow he admitted, “Yeah, it's pretty neat.”

Andreas chuckled and was still chuckling when Yuuri left him to sit down next to Plisetsky. “Viktor knows no shame, huh?”

Plisetsky snorted. “It's Viktor. Question answered?” He giggled. “You should have seen your face – as if you've just been declared emperor of China.”

“Nah, just a humble, regular, everyday human,” Yuuri shot back, “maybe with the distinction that I am friends with some Fair Folk. How do you feel about your Russalka role?”

Plisetsky grinned to him. “Great! It's... it's a challenge, that much I can tell. Viktor never half-asses his work and he was brooding over this for years. We'll be sweating blood by the time we're done with it.”

“Would be boring otherwise.”

Plisetsky nodded and held up his hand. “Great to sing with you again.”

Yuuri clasped it. “Same.”

The rehearsal on stage went on for two more hours; the royal couple and their entourage left right afterwards, leaving behind a chorus dissolving in excited chattering.

Amidst the noise Mr. Feltsman took his place on stage and watched them for a while until he called, “Quiet! Quiet, will explain opera!”

The bark had the intended effect; they all fell silent in an instant.

Again Mr. Feltsman looked around and then he breathed in and out. “Ah. Good to be back.”

Yuuri shared the sentiment and it probably showed on his face.

Mr. Wagner apparently didn't. He remained on his spot, smiling sharply. “For the moment, Mr. Feltsman, for the moment.”

“Good. Roles. Leads. Katsuki – you are human man. Sing baritone when alive. You die in story. Are ghost then. And sing tenor.”

Yuuri nodded and Andreas next to him remarked, “Sounds almost like that role is made for you.”

Yuuri bit his lip to restrain himself from answering with, “You have no idea” while Mr. Feltsman continued, “Yura! Russalka. Tenor. High tenor. Befriends human. Is consumed by desire for revenge when human is killed. Wilhelmina Mix, low soprano, yes?”

Mina Mix grew very pale, very silent and very fidgety. Her head moved in a slight tremor that probably was supposed to be a nod.

“You are sister to human. Tragic death too. You grieve a lot. Practise singing as if crying.”

The young woman nodded. “Yes! I'll do my best!”

Mr. Wagner was still smiling that awfully sharp smile of his. “Well, let's hope your best will have an effect, my dear. This is... well.” He leafed through the papers in his hand. “It is an admirable first effort, that's for sure. I'm sure, the artist will rise to incredible heights, given a few years. Do you know him, Mr. Feltsman?”

“No matter now. Münzer – you are Elven King. Tenor. Want Fair Folk separated from humans. Want to drive humans away. Angry about friendship between Russalka and human. Kill human. Are killed by Russalka in the end.”

Arnold Münzer, a pointy-faced red-head with more freckles than actual skin, even when there was no summer chuckled. “Are there any people surviving this?”

“Yes,” Mr. Feltsman answered and then continued, “Johannes Erhardt! Priest, human. Will protect village from Elven king. Needs conviction that Russalka is no bad. Then protects friendship. Angela Berger. Small role, you are first minion to Elven King. Lure human into trap. Also survive. I think. We can have you die on sidelines if you wish.”

Angela Berger again made a face at the prospect of not singing a big and important part, but nodded and accepted the role with relative grace.

“Chorus is split between narration and Fair Folk. Fair folk is of tenors, altos and sopranos,” Mr. Feltsman continued. “Are Fair Folk. Sing high.”

“An adorable motif,” Mr. Wagner said, “A little predictable, I suppose, but tried-and-tested narrative means are tried-and-tested for a reason.”

Mr. Feltsman still didn't pay any mind to him. “Narration chorus baritones and bass. Led by Kästner. Last bit, closing out with Priest.”

“A greek chorus, how charming,” Mr. Wagner commented.

“Story is of a human who befriends russalka,” Mr. Feltsman went on while he handed the libretto to Johannes Erhardt to leaf through and then hand over to the others. “Gets lost in woods late at night and finds russalkas dancing. They want him to join so they can drown him.”

“Russalkas are?” Mr. Wagner asked, “I have never heard of them, what part of the world are they from?”

“Russian water spirits,” Plisetsky answered. “Sometimes they are the souls of women who drowned in that lake or river. Which just goes to prove that the world would be less troublesome if everybody learned to swim and half of all people weren’t stuck with layers and layers of clothing and being tied up.”

Yuuri, having both worn skirts and dresses as a child and dealing with a corset nowadays, silently agreed with him.

Mr. Wagner shook his head. “My dear boy, you are trying to rob women of what makes them happy. You shouldn't do that.”

Both Mina Mix and Angela Berger wisely remained silent.

“We can discuss the blessings and perils of modern couture another time,” Johannes Erhardt remarked. “I would like to know how I end up being the only one alive in the end.”

“The artist is obviously Russian,” Mr. Wagner answered. “They do have a taste for the melodramatic.”

Mr. Feltsman shrugged. “Is fairy tale. Opera fairy tale never end good. Not when water spirit and love involved. _Undine_ is same.” He cleared his throat. “Russalka is impressed by man who gets out of dancing himself to death and agrees to lead him home safely. Warns him to not come back to forest.”

“Would be a pretty short opera if he did,” Andreas commented.

“Would be,” Mr. Feltsman agreed. “So man cannot forget russalka and comes back. Almost gets killed but  Russalka saves him and they become friends.”

The libretto had now reached Yuuri, Andreas and Plisetsky who looked through it together.

Yuuri was glad for it; without Andreas' presence reminding him of where he was he probably would have started either crying or laughing hysterically.

Mr. Feltsman cleared his throat. “This sounds to me like we would be better off to cast either the water spirit or the human as a woman. I would very much not like _my_ theatre involved in an indecency scandal.”

“Are all aware of,” Mr. Feltsman replied frostily. “Casting is set. Casting is approved of by king. Casting is as it is for this. If later stage it again, do what you will. Russalka and Man are friends and happy. But neither his humans nor the other spirits like this. Spirits warn Russalka he is going against Elven King's wishes and orders. Russalka will not listen. And humans – the sister and the priest – worry for man. They confront Russalka. Can be convinced he is good and decent and will not do harm. Are fine now.” He nodded for emphasis. 

Mr. Wagner looked as if again he wanted to say something but Mr. Feltsman sent a sharp look around and he remained silent. Yuuri commended him for his good sense.

“So the Elven king lays yet another trap and kills the man?” Andreas asked now.

“Does. Lures man back into forest. Minions come to men, tell him Russalka is in danger – Miss Berger. Your scene then.”

Angela Berger smiled to herself about that.

“Man goes into forest and runs into Elven king – and finds out Russalka not in danger. Russalka comes to save him, but now ends up in danger.”

“How convoluted,” Mr. Wagner commented. 

“Elven king wants to punish Russalka with death, but man begs and begs for his life – and king agrees. He will not kill Russalka. But man will.”

Yuuri and Plisetsky shared a long, uncomfortable look.

“You know, I do occasionally want to strangle you,” Yuuri mumbled, “never thought I'd ever get to act on it, though. And on stage to top it off.”

“And repeatedly,” Plisetsky added. 

“Human can break free spell for long enough to kill himself, rather than Russalka,” Mr. Feltsman continued and Mina Mix yelped in dismay. “Oh no, the poor thing!”

“Yep,” Plisetsky said, “sounds like Katsuki.”

“Does he snark about it?” Andreas asked, “It's only really Yuuri if he snarks about it while dying in heroic self-sacrifice.”

“Bah,” Yuuri grinned. “I'd botch it and poke my eye out, most likely.”

“See?” Andreas laughed.

“Apparently the artist knows his cast quite well?” Mr. Wagner asked with a smile that actually looked like he was genuinely amused by their exchanges.

Mr. Feltsman once more decided to not deign that with an answer. “Russalka swears bitter revenge. Aria. High-pitched. Yura can scream on stage.”

“Yes!”

Yuuri chuckled. “If you wanted to scream on stage so badly, you should have asked. I would have kicked you.”

“End first half. Human rises as ghost again. Sings tenor now.”

“Really made for you, Yuuri,” Andreas sighed. “Tell me your secrets. What do I have to do to get someone to write an opera while having me in mind specifically for the lead role?”

_ Be a nervous wreck, somehow charm the ridiculously good-looking composer, fall in love with him, easy as that _ , was most definitely not an answer Yuuri could give right now.

He shrugged. “No idea. I'm not a composer. Ask one. Mr. Wagner, any ideas?”

Mr. Wagner did seem to have several ideas, but wisely kept them to himself.

“Part two is Russalka slowly losing himself in his hatred and desire for revenge,” Mr. Feltsman continued, louder now to get them to pay attention.

“Ghost warns him, does not want him to change who he is, wants him to find peace. Russalka gives up on revenge. For a while. Still deeply desires it.” Mr. Feltsman sighed. “Then sister of man enters forest. Has gone mad over loss of her brother.”

“Oh, poor thing,” Mina Mix repeated. “And... oh dear, this will be very intense, right?”

Mr. Feltsman nodded gravely. “You give best.”

“Yes!” She looked like she was forcibly restraining herself from saluting him. 

“Runs into forest, wants to kill Russalka. Spirits let her pass. Bad luck to touch mad people, even for spirits. But she steps into water. Drowns. Russalka tries pull her out, but cannot. Another death Russalka is to blame for in Russalka’s mind,”  Mr. Feltsman sighed. It was echoed all around.

“Poor thing,” Mina Mix said once more. “The poor, poor thing – how will the audience hear us when they will be so busy crying their hearts out?”

“Is art,” Mr. Feltsman said. “You artist. Make them feel like need good long cry. But be engaging so they want to watch until end before crying.”

“Challenge accepted,” Plisetsky said.

“I'm more worried I won't be able to sing properly because _I_ am crying,” Johannes Erhardt admitted. “That thing is designed to make you bawl like an owl.”

“That's because it's Russian,” Plisetsky whispered to Yuuri, so softly that nobody else could hear it.

Yuuri bit back a laugh. “Sounds about right.”

“Elven King loses patience with humans living near the forest, though,” Mr. Feltsman continued. “Had hoped they would leave when two people dead. Was wrong. Feels threatened. Decides attack on them. Spirits talk about it. Russalka hears. Russalka wants not fail again and he and Ghost rush to Priest to warn him and he prepare protection for village with them. Also notices that Russalka has changed. Is darker now. Harder. Gone is sweetness and love. Revenge has forged him to ice and steel. If he continues he will be Revenge spirit. And change so much for this that Ghost loses last connection to life and will disappear.”

Mina Mix shook her head, yet another “The poor thing” hanging on her lips.

“So he wants Russalka to stay away, stay hidden, not look at Elven King, so he will not lose control and move against him. If he is in control of himself long enough, he will learn to bear the hatred and cope with it and will be Russalka again as Man has known.”

“Doesn't work?” Andreas asked.

Mr. Feltsman snorted. “Works as well as telling you lot to stay away from trouble.”

All around there was chuckling.

“Russalka tries to obey, but looks when he hears Elven King approaching.

Tries to remain calm, but Elven King gloats and taunts and declares humans useless and only trouble and only bearable when dead.”

If the Elven King was talking about Yuuri's character in particular in that scene, he did sound suspiciously close to the voice that Yuuri had had in his head for so long and that still, very occasionally, piped up every now and then.

He sighed deeply. Viktor knew him too well, indeed.

“With certain people, it is hard to disagree with him,” Mr. Wagner said.

God, Yuuri wanted to slap him.

Mr. Feltsman shot him a look of similar sentiment. “Elven King attacks priest and so Russalka steps in between and is wounded mortally. With dying breath he loses control over himself. Attacks Elven King and kills him. And is overjoyed about it. But transformation to revenge spirit complete now.”

Yuuri saw how Mina Mix dabbed her eyes.

Andreas shook his head.

“Ghost disappears with a sorrowful cry. Former Russalka expires soon after.” Mr. Wagner sighed deeply. “Remaining spirits decide to leave. Agree that Elven King was right. No way for them to live together. Not now. Too much hurt. Too much pain. Resentments will break out again. So they separate themselves entirely from the human world. But is with hope. Sometime it will be possible. Man and Russalka have shown it can be done. Will be done again when humans and Fair Folk have healed of their pains and want to try again.” Mr. Feltsman folded his hands. “Of course, you all could have read libretto. But telling about it is nicer.”

“A lot nicer,” Mina Mix sighed. “Aw, no, now my face is all puffy!”

“It's really not that bad,” Andreas said, “Really, just a little cold water and you're fresh as the morning again.”

Mina Mix sniffed. “I fear Mr. Erhardt is right.”

“Johannes, child,” Johannes Erhardt corrected her, “that's entirely enough, really.”

“Johannes is right,” Mina Mix repeated. Urgh, Yuuri would now have to keep Johannes and Johannes Erhardt apart in his mind. How bothersome.

“The toughest part will be not crying so hard that we can't sing anymore.”

“Eh.” Plisetsky shrugged. “I bet after three rehearsals or so when Yakov bellows that we sing this part and that again and again and again it gets better. You get used to it.”

“Well, I certainly hope so.” Mina sighed. “When can we expect the libretti to be handed out?”

“Give them to print tomorrow,” Mr. Feltsman said. “Should be done in a week.”

She nodded. “Great.”

“Is.” He clapped his hands. “Rehearsals long over. Time to eat.”

It was a welcome signal for them all to pack up and leave and Yuuri hurried to do so. He had to go down, meet with Viktor and listen to him laugh and cackle and laugh and be delighted with the stunt he had pulled there.

Not to mention that he was positively starving. If he was to go without food any longer Yuuri suspected he would start gnawing on Plisetsky's bony back side and he imagined that there would be quite a few objections to this happening.

Mina Mix stepped up to him and chirped, “I hope I'll be a deserving older sister to you!”

Yuuri heard Plisetsky snort and was tempted to shoot him a sharp look.

Mina Mix was first. “And... and you, Yuri Plisetsky!”

Plisetsky flinched.

The girl looked at him with something akin to almost panic, then she drew in a deep breath and declared, “And to you I will be a good counterpart, you will have no reason to complain about me!”

“Uh...” Plisetsky scratched his neck. “Good to hear. I guess?”

“Thank you!” she yelled and then she turned around and rushed off, her skirts rustling.

Plisetsky looked after her and bemusedly shook his head. “I see why Viktor picked her. Nice pipes. And energy.”

Yuuri nodded and turned to leave as well.

“Mr. Feltsman, Yuri, Mr. Katsuki.” Mr. Wagner once again stood in front of them, smiling. “Congratulations. I am sure this opera is a big step forward for you all.”

“Is,” Mr. Feltsman answered curtly. “Great step. Great chance for everyone. Thank you.”

“I am sure you all will work very hard to make the opera as successful as possible,” Mr. Wagner continued.

“Which is what we always do,” Yuuri remarked. “This will be no different.”

“In that case I am sure the artist entrusted the right people with his work. I am wondering, though, how he will act in the event it will be a success?”

“Will see,” Mr. Feltsman grumbled.

“I do hope so. Will he attend the premiere? Will he be present during rehearsals?”

Yuuri and Plisetsky exchanged another uncomfortable look. The honest answer would have been  _ yes _ . There was no way Viktor would ever miss any rehearsal of his work, let alone the premiere.

But that would have meant that Mr. Wagner would ask even more questions when nobody who could be that thorn in his side.

“Will be,” Mr. Feltsman said. “Will not be talking to anyone. Will focus on work. Would like not be distracted.”

“You seem to know the artist fairly well to speak for him?”

Mr. Felstman shrugged. “Is good thing. In best interest.”

“But wouldn't the singers be a lot better off to hear directly from the artist how he imagines his work to be presented and performed?”

“The story and the stage directions are pretty clear, from what I've seen,” Yuuri shrugged. “A composer who wants to control every aspect of his work's presentation only ends up stifling the performance and smothering the beauty of the work itself, instead of letting the singers find their own ideas in it.”

“If singers wanted to have their own views and ideas about something,” Mr. Wagner said, “they should have chosen a productive field, rather than a mere performative one. But I see. You would not want me to meet the artist whose work is produced under my protection and oversight. Of course, I completely understand your reservations.”

“Good,” Mr. Feltsman said. “Good day, Mr. Wagner. See you tomorrow.” He turned around, waving slightly and Plisetsky – with one glance to Mr. Wagner – followed him.

Yuuri nodded a polite good-bye to Mr. Wagner before he left himself.

He found them outside in front of the theatre, Mr. Feltsman stuffing himself a pipe Yuuri had never seen before. He hadn't even known Mr. Feltsman was a smoker, but given the content, relaxed smile on his face the man only indulged into the luxury of a pipe on only very special occasions. Nice to see that this day qualified as one. It did nothing against the slight gnawing of worry that was settling in in his chest.

Plisetsky was talking softly to him in Russian, but when Yuuri came closer they both lifted their heads in acknowledgement.

Yuuri had at least the manners to acknowledge them in return, before he, in a low voice, asked, “Did Mr. Wagner ever suspect that Viktor's still alive?”

“Nope,” Plisetsky answered at once, “never had a clue.”

Mr. Feltsman shook his head. “None, no, and is good thing. Put the boy through hell. No need to do more. Enough having ruined his life once.”

“Hey!” Plisetsky shot him a dark look. “That's not fair!”

“Is truth.”

“Isn't the truth either, I...” Plisetsky sighed. “I...” Again he sighed and then he drew in a deep breath. “Yakov, I... I know he was horrible to Viktor, I know... I'm sorry I didn't admit it for so long, alright?”

Mr. Feltsman raised an eyebrow.

Plisetsky bit his lip. “But, you know, he was not the one who got Viktor into that scandal and sadly _that_ ass is not available anymore to rip it open.”

“No promises of violence you can't deliver,” Yuuri sighed.

Plisetsky ignored that remark.

“Was talking about eye,” Mr. Feltsman said.

“Yes. His eye. Which is awful. And...” Again Plisetsky took a deep sigh. “And his eye is _not_ his life! And I'm grateful, yes?!”

Mr. Feltsman paused and then sighed deeply. “Right, I think. Eye is not life. And Wagner is not root for scandal or reason for Vitya to be in cave.” He nodded grimly. “If anything, was made good use of.”

Plisetsky nodded, a grim, strangely satisfied smile twitching around his lips.

“But, boy,” Mr. Feltsman continued, “you were not here when I told about Viktor being dead. You not have seen his face.”

The smile faded from Plisetsky's face.

Mr. Feltsman bit on his lip and then took a deep, long drag from his pipe, breathing out the smoke. “Is hard feeling sorry for man who delights in my son's suicide, Yura. Is impossible, I say.”

Plisetsky suddenly looked as if he was feeling very ill.

“Yuuri, you go down to Viktor?” Mr. Feltsman asked. 

“Uh. Yes. I was planning to.”

Mr. Feltsman nodded. “Good. Deserves being happy now. Good work. Tell him to hand over costume ideas, please. Need to start early with costumes. Lena will need sew everything new.”

“At least it'll keep the girls busy,” Plisetsky sighed.

Yuuri nodded. “I'll tell him. If he has something ready, you'll get it tomorrow before rehearsal.”

Mr. Feltsman nodded. “Good.” Then he stretched, took a last drag on his pipe and then extinguished it. “Good, very good. Need to plan schedule now. Double rehearsals for everyone. Will be fun.” And rubbing his hands he went back inside, getting to work.

“Well,” Plisetsky said, looking after him, “well, the next few weeks will be fun.”

“And torture,” Yuuri said, “You heard him. Double time.”

“Eh, with _Fidelio_ we're only in the chorus anyways and _Russalka_ has not too many long chorus bits. I don't think we'll go too long before soloists and chorus can work together. That's a load off our shoulders.” He looked to Yuuri and grinned. “Let's make this good.”

Yuuri nodded. “We will.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next few chapters will see a lot of German text curtesy by me and next month will see a lot of editing of the story, so...  
> If you want to watch me change names, rewrite paragraphs and listen to me curse, I'm currently trying to figure out how to stream stuff (discord did NOT work. Gr.) so - check on my tumblr on occasion to see what I'm up to?


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rehearsals and reveals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, while summer is coming SfM is slowly coming to an end. Well, not really. I already started editing. Thank goodness the first chapters are pretty easy in that regard. :) That aside there are still bonus stories in the works and these are way too much fun. If you have any suggestions what to write, just throw it at me.   
> And now - I present to you... 29.

Chapter 29

 

“Guys!”

Thomas burst into rehearsal a few weeks later. “Guys, you have no idea what happened!”

It was the end of March; _Fidelio_ had opened with success and was still running on a full house every night.

That had spelled the end of  _ Fidelio _ ’ s rehearsal cycle; additionally, as predicted the chorus didn’t require too much time to get ready and by now they were going through the opera together.

Their Elven king Arnold Münzer was late today and Mr. Feltsman looked at him with stern, scornful eyes before he sighed, “So. What happened?” he asked, “Tell. Be quick. Get ready for rehearsal.”

“National congress! They decided on a constitution!”

The relevance of that was quite lost on Yuuri. The National Congress was sitting in Frankfurt, in another country, hundreds of miles away.

“Yes!” Plisetsky squealed, “took them long enough!” He began bouncing on his feet, clearly pondering whether he should risk the ire of Mr. Feltsman and just run for it or whether he would be waiting for a few hours to discuss the news with Otto, as any sensible person with even an inkling of survival instinct would do.

“Forgive the foreigner here,” Yuuri remarked, “but this is apparently a good thing, I would like to know why that is so?”

“Well, we can't have a unified Germany without a unified legal system, can we,” Andreas grinned, obviously elated as well. “They finally agreed on it! It's a huge step forward, I mean, without agreeing on that stuff you can forget agreeing on anything else of importance and - you know there are almost thirty parliaments that have instantly agreed on implementing it, they acknowledged it as legal, they agree with the National Congress, this is amazing!”

Apparently it was, because around Yuuri the excited chatter grew to a veritable buzz.

“What does it say?” he asked. All that excitement had to be about something good, he hoped; or at least something people with republican and democratic leanings considered good.

“First of all – the same rights for everyone,” Andreas started, “and German citizens can sue if their rights are violated and they are the same everywhere and...” He took a deep breath. “Also, a constitutional monarchy, not ideal in my eyes, but-”

“No time for politics!” Mr. Feltsman called. “No politics in theatre! Singing in theatre! Sing now, you singers, sing! Politics for free time! This singing time! Sing!”

They sang. They sang through the scene where Sister and Priest confronted Russalka and Human and tried to bring them apart.

“Nicht so fremd von mir ist und ist und ist und ist Russalka, so viel näher ist er mir als ihr und wenn ihr dies versteht, nur irgendwie, nur irgendwie versteht dann bitte, bitte, lasst ihn mir,” sang Yuuri, begging Johannes Erhardt's Priest to recognize the Russalka for being closer to him than he was ostensibly supposed to.

[…]

Yuuri listened to the Russalka and the Priest argue about the water spirit's nature and potential for evil, about the possibility of him not being so and about the presence of God in this world, he sang as Human in Russalka's defense, begging everyone to please see him with the same eyes that he saw him with.

The scene was tense, but for them a lot less intense than others that would follow, and they went through it quite easily, although as usual Mr. Feltsman begged to differ and found several things at fault with them.

So they sang again. And again. And again.

Finally, though, Mr. Feltsman let them go and of course Plisetsky grinned to Yuuri, “I wonder if Otto has heard already,” and dashed off.

“Wow,” Andreas commented. “Must be a big love, huh?”

Yuuri shrugged. “Suppose so.”

He met them on his way outside, Yuuri leaning against a beam and watching Otto work, while the latter was packing up tools into crates. Occasionally Plisetsky handed him a thing or two, but whenever he lifted something heavier than a hammer, Otto grunted and took it away from him a lot quicker, causing Plisetsky to roll his eyes.

They were both smiling, albeit Otto a little more reserved than Yuuri.

“This national constitution _is_ a good thing then, I suppose?” Yuuri asked.

Otto nodded. “Very good. If it comes to pass over here in Saxony, it would be even better, but that it exists is already a really good thing.”

“It will,” Plisetsky declared. “Why shouldn't it?”

Otto shrugged. “A question for the ages and one that hinges on another question – will the king accept and implement it? So far Saxony hasn't declared herself in favour.”

“He would lose quite a bit if he did, right?” Yuuri asked. “One of the other singers said it contained a declaration about a constitutional monarchy.”

Otto nodded. “I read that too. They want to declare the Prussian king German Emperor.” Now his face shifted, ever so slightly into something that Yuuri could consider a grimace. “Which is still a step up from monarchs having any real, actual power, so I won't complain too much, but well. I don't think this is a good idea.”

When Yuuri lifted a roll of rope and handed it to Otto he wordlessly took it and packed it away.

“I mean, given the choice, would you rather be the actual ruling power over your relatively small spot, but be the only power there that matters or would you rather have a grand title, ostensibly a lot more power than before and whatnot – but now have to obey the wishes of others?”

Plisetsky furrowed his brow. “But if it's the people's wish-”

“And when have kings ever cared for that? They're kings.” Otto sighed.

“So you don't think this will work out?” Plisetsky asked.

“I hope it will, but I don't hang my heart upon it. The king would have to accept the constitution and – I don't think he will. As far as I've heard, no kingdom of Germany has done so, only duchies and such small fishes. And they don't have the power to bend anyone to their will, even combined.”

“If the king's not stupid – and he isn't – he better accept, though,” Plisetsky mused. “I mean, the mood is pretty tense here anyways.”

Otto nodded. “He might make a declaration. Or he might stay silent and let that speak for itself. In any case, it will lead to unrest. I suppose, some in our circles would be happy if the king rejects the constitution for that exact reason.” He rubbed his temples. “A nice pretence to make a mess again.”

“Stupid,” Plisetsky grumbled.

“I know, yes.” Otto sighed. “But some people think mayhem is the only or the best way to make progress on their road to freedom, liberty and peace. At least for themselves.” His jaw set into a firm line. “Idiots, if you ask me. And they sadly tend to survive and continue to make a mess of everything. If they like violence so much, they should just meet up for a duel or something, that would at least take care of _that_ problem.”

Plisetsky raised an eyebrow. “And you always claim I am hot-headed and too angry?”

“Yes, you are.” Otto's face now softened into a smile that Yuuri decided was entirely too private for him to have any right to see. “Always far too angry and you are adorable for it.”

Oh dear.

“I'll go then,” Yuuri mumbled.

Plisetsky shot him a weirdly triumphant look and Yuuri felt compelled to stick out his tongue at him.

Plisetsky laughed, the brat.

“Thanks for filling me in, Otto.”

Otto nodded and then turned his attention back to his work.

Yuuri turned and then hurried to get into the city and grab a bite to eat before the preparations for the evening would start and he would have to be in the communal dressing room again and meet Viktor in some nook, just like in their early days. Then he would be on stage and then – finally, finally – he would be allowed to retreat from everything here and go and get his lessons and talk to Viktor.

His day had rarely ever felt so long.

“Maybe we should leave a little sooner than originally planned,” he said after his lessons and over dinner.

“Because of these few clauses they wrote down in a city at the other side of the continent?” Viktor asked. “Love, are you not a little paranoid?”

Yuuri shrugged. “Maybe. But... these few clauses seem to mean a lot to a lot of people and they seem to be good in principle.”

“I see. Important things cause people to make trouble in order to get them,” Viktor nodded.

“Yes and – what do you think, what is more likely? That people will be firm and assured in their German-ness and therefore more accepting of foreigners or-”

Viktor made a face before turning his attention to his lentil soup. “Yes. I see your point. So you want to leave before there is trouble?”

“You know me entirely too well,” Yuuri sighed. “I mean, I don't have too much trouble here and what I have I can ignore, but still. And I think for Jews it is worse.”

“ _Da_.” Viktor nodded. “Always was. Will always be, I suppose.” He took a spoonful. “Alright. _Russalka_ will have its run. If things heat up until then we hopefully have packed out things and are ready to leave on short notice. If not, we have a little more time to plan and prepare.” He rubbed his temples. “Are you sure about this?”

“Something Otto said today worries me, mostly,” Yuuri admitted. “About some people always trying to pick fights and cause unrest. They'd have a pretty easy time to do so now.”

“I see.” Again Viktor rubbed his temples. “Well. Better get working on breaking the news to Yura and Yakov. If things turn sour for real I would much prefer for them to leave with us as well.”

Yuuri snorted. “Plisetsky will be thrilled.”

Viktor nodded curtly. “At least he will be alive.”

They ate in silence for a while and then Viktor added, “His stage hand is very welcome to join the party, if need be.”

“Might actually convince him,” Yuuri mumbled. “Though Celestino will probably drop dead on the spot when I return with half the Saxonian Royal Court Theatre in tow.”

Viktor laughed. “Oh I will love to see his face. What do you think, will it be hard getting a position?”

Yuuri shrugged. “For you, I don’t think so. Celestino appreciates talent. Would find a place for anyone I drag along, if not in the  _ Scala _ , then probably he could redirect them to other theatres either in Milan.”

“Do you think he would have use for a new background painter?”

“Could be. Or not, in that case he’ll know a place that does though. Why do you ask?”

“Apparently Yura's stage hand-”

“Otto, you know, your new brother-in-law has a name, it's Otto,” Yuuri teased, “and unlike Wagner you don't need to dread him, you can say his name.”

Viktor rolled his eye at him. “Apparently _Otto_ has a bit of an artistic bent.”

“What a surprise,” Yuuri drawled.

“Yes, not really.” Viktor chuckled. “Yura showed me some sketches he has made. Apparently, Otto Becker had some ideas for the stage design for _Russalka_ the moment he heard about the opera and talked about it with Yura. So Yura got a few sketches and water colour paintings from him and brought them to me and – I like his ideas. Very classical, befitting the fairy tale. Nothing too modern. But he knows where to put highlights. He even accounted for the stage directions I put into the libretto, where the light goes and what not.”

Yuuri chuckled. “Well, you're the great, anonymous composer. Everyone bends to your will. Say the word, the opera will be as you like it.”

“I fear it will not be as simple as that, love," Viktor said. “I would certainly enjoy wielding so much power, but alas. I never said anything specific about the stage design, so it is not in my hand anymore. Yakov and – Wagner – have the last word about this and between the two W – Wagner has still the last word of all last words, so I cannot simply give him the job.”

Yuuri nodded. “You mentioned it to Mr. Feltsman?”

“I plan to when I see him, he wanted to talk with me tonight anyways. Would be good if he could help. Otto Becker would have something to show. A recommendation too. I will see if I can get it into him.”

Yuuri chuckled. “Would be pretty good, I think. If he's good and has at least one reference, he'll find work anywhere.”

Maybe he could work together with someone to translate _Russalka_ into Italian. German operas weren't too popular in Italy, but with the language changed, maybe...

Maybe.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

It would be something he could do, that was for sure. If he could get there.

Yes, first, Yuuri sighed to himself, they'd have to get there. That was the first step. They so had to get there.

Viktor reached out to take his hand. “I cannot wait for it. What will we do first when we are there?”

“So much,” Yuuri laughed. “There is a place down the street of where I used to live with Celestino, they make great risotto, I think you'll like the beef one. Fist that and then... the winery, two streets over. They have an amazing array.”

Viktor laughed. “Rice dishes and fine wines, my Yuuri is treating me.”

“I'll love to,” Yuuri said. He would really love to.

Someday. Someday soon.

 

Maybe deep down they had all thought _Russalka_ would be an easy opera to work out. After all, chorus and soloist rehearsals had been kept separate for about only about a week before they could go on to joint rehearsals of individual scenes. It was an interesting experience, with the occasionally chorus singer starting to weep or the regular soloist forgetting their lines.

Nobody was more surprised than Yuuri to find out that it wasn’t him who was most prone to these blank moments.

Poor Mina Mix tended to get flustered far too easily, intimidated by both the emotionally heavy score and libretto and by her counterparts. Yuuri suspected that it was mainly Plisetsky with his reputation for temper tantrums and his tendency to impatience that caused her nerves to flutter and he felt for her. Then again, the fact that they occasionally had an audience during rehearsal probably didn't help matters either.

“Mörder, Teufel, Ungeheuer!” she was screaming at Plisetsky’s Russalka, cursing him for causing the death of her beloved brother, “auf ewig sei verflucht der Tag da du erschienst auf dieser Welt, da du fandest den Weg zu uns-”

She faltered.

Plisetsky had just sported an expression of intense pain and self-loathing, but it was now quickly fading away. “Brennen ließ ich, wenn ich könnte, dich und alle deiner Art,” he continued her line for her and then he huffed. “By now you should know your lines, really.”

Mina Mix looked at her feet, clearly embarrassed. Yuuri could see her shaking.

“I... I do! I mean, I know the lines, but…”

“But?”

Yuuri shot him a look in the hopes of shutting him up.

He found himself soundly ignored.

“I... I think I just... I just get so nervous and...” She swallowed and took a deep, shaky breath that made Yuuri's heart go out to her.

“I... can we try again? Please?” she asked. “Please!” She turned to Mr. Feltsman.

And Mr. Feltsman sighed. “Alright! Georgi! Again, from  _ Mörder, Teufel, Ungeheuer _ !”

Georgi behind his piano saluted and then hammered away on his piano.

“Mörder, Teufel, Ungeheuer, auf ewig sei verflucht der Tag da du erschienst auf dieser Welt, da du fandest den Weg zu uns! Brennen ließ ich, wenn ich könnte, dich und alle deiner Art!”

Oh, good, she seemed to have gotten a hang of herself. Yuuri breathed a sigh of relief.

It didn't last long.

“Und da meines Hasses Feuer, Eiseskälte meiner Trauer dir...” She faltered and swallowed. “Dir...” Again she swallowed.

“Dir kein Haar zu krümmen mag, so bete, dass meiner Hände Schärfe dich zu reißen, dich zu schlagen mögen!” Plisetsky snapped and – the girl actually started to shiver.

Yuuri would have had the next line, so he was close enough anyways to just step up to her and touch her arm. “It's alright, yes, it's alright...”

He looked around and his eyes found Mr. Feltsman's.

The old badger nodded slightly. “Alright. Mix, take a break, scene between Elven King and Minion!”

For a moment Yuuri inwardly complained about the injustice of the universe that had led to them having to deal with Richard Wagner now as their director.

Angela Berger and Arnold Münzer came out and Georgi started to play.

“Höre nun, was ich dir sage, führe aus, wie ich dich weise und sei mir nur recht geschwind,” Elven King ordered his minion.

Meanwhile Mina retreated into the wings, sat down on one of the crates there and let out a shaky breath.

“Fliege hin auf raschen Schwingen, eile fort mit schnellem Schritt. Spüre auf den Menschenwurm, erzähl' ihm von Russalka's Not!”

Yuuri leaned himself against a beam. “Nerves?”

She nodded. “I'm so sorry.”

Oh dear. “It's alright, really. Hang ups happen.”

“Yeah. They didn't happen with _Fidelio_ though,” she mumbled. “Damn… sorry, so sorry but…”

“I'm the last person you need to apologize to, really,” Yuuri said. “Been there. Pretty often still am there.”

Mina raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Meanwhile Angela Berger had answered the order to lure Human into a trap. “Russalkas Not? Ist Russalka denn in Not, wenn du es nicht in solche bringst?”

Yuuri recalled that Mina had been hired only recently and had not seen him when he had started here almost a year ago. A year already. Yuuri shook his head.

“Yeah. Ask Mila or Sara if you ever get a hold of them. And if not, I bet Johannes Erhardt and Andreas will happily feed you stories of my multiple mental breakdowns.” He scratched his head. “Or Mr. Wagner, if you want to be especially mean, although he'll probably make me out to break down into tears every five minutes without ever having seen it.”

“Oh,” Mina said. “You really don't like him.”

Yuuri felt his mouth twitch. “How on earth would you ever get that idea?”

Mina shrugged. “Call it a hunch.”

“In Not ist's und ist eine Not!”, […] declared his intentions to end the relationship between Human and Russalka. “Zeit ist's dass wir es nun enden. Bring den Mensch nur her zu mir. Sag, ich halt Russalka in den Händen.”

Yuuri shrugged. “What are you afraid of?” he asked. “As you said, you’ve been fine in  _ Fidelio _ , so you’re not nervous on principle, I suppose.”

“I don’t think so, but… you know, if I mess up something like _Fidelio_ people will think I suck and move on and will still like the opera, no matter what.” She swallowed. “If I mess up my part here and drag you all down I… I like this opera, I really do and I want it to do well.”

“Same,” Yuuri said.

“Yeah, but you don't forget your lines.” She sighed. “How can I make it go away?”

Oh, how often had Yuuri asked himself the same question. “You don’t,” he said. “It’s pointless. The fear never quite goes away.”

Mina sighed. “Really?”

“Afraid so. At least for me it doesn’t, so I had to start thinking what exactly I am afraid of this time and why.” He considered this the right time to give Mina a questioning look.

She shrugged. “I don’t want to drag everything down.”

“You’re not,” Yuuri said and then, after a moment, decided that maybe it was time to be a little more like Plisetsky. Just a little. “You’re right, _Russalka_ is an amazing piece and…” He smiled. “I’m so happy I get to sing it.”

Mina nodded.

“And if you mess up that doesn’t change the fact that the material is great. If you mess up, that doesn’t change the fact that Plisetsky is a wonderful Russalka, Johannes Erhardt a perfect Priest, Angela and Thomas terrifying spirits and that the chorus is spot-on.”

“And you are impressive,” Mina said.

“Yeah, maybe.” Yuuri shrugged. “But point is, you messing up would be not optimal, but it would also not ruin everything.”

Mina swallowed. “Harsh,” she said.

“I know, sorry.” Yuuri sighed. “But it’s the truth. In the end we are all pieces in the whole, so – if one piece doesn’t work out so well, the impression of the whole is marred, yes, but not completely destroyed.”

“Yes.” She sighed. “Thank you. That helps.”

“Really?” Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “I mean, I'm glad it does and I said it to help you, but as you said, it's harsh.”

“Hm.” Mina sighed. “So you say it doesn't go away?”

“Afraid so, yes.”

She looked at him. “It's kind of hard to imagine. You always seem so calm.”

“I...” Yuuri smiled. “I learned to deal with it. Thinking about why I am afraid and... and also developing ways to ease it for the moment. Having someone close hug you would be my first suggestion.”

“You do that?”

“Before every performance,” he admitted. “Really does a lot, you know.”

She nodded. “Still can't believe it. You're always so centred, even when Mr. Wagner is... well. Mr. Wagner.”

Yuuri had to chuckle at the notion. “Me? Calm? Really?”

“Yes, really, I mean...” She waved her hands.

Yuuri shook his head. “I'm the last person you could call calm, trust me. I'll be calm and collected when I'm in my grave.”

Mina chuckled. “Well in that case, we better be un-calm on stage, I suppose.”

“Feeling better?”

“A little. Thank you.”

They walked out again und Mina, with a nervous smile, mumbled, “Alright. Let’s try again.”

Mr. Feltsman raised an eyebrow. “Sure?” he asked, “Can try again tomorrow.”

Mina shook her head. “Either I get it right now or I don’t, but it can be only better than just now and I don't wanna end on a low point.”

Mr. Feltsman sighed. “Alright. If you insist. Yura! Sister's death!”

Plisetsky looked over to them, raised an eyebrow, but he didn't comment on anything, just nodded and waved for Mina to come over to him.

Georgi flipped through his sheet music and started to play again.

Mina Mix took a deep breath.

“Du!” she called to Plisetsky, “Du! Mörder, Teufel, Ungeheuer! Auf ewig sei verflucht der Tag da du erschienst auf dieser Welt, da du fandest den Weg zu uns!”

Their little audience, a few regular patrons of the theatre, raised eyebrows, obviously waiting for Mina to falter and fail again. After all, she was no Sara Crispino, not even close, right?

Yuuri just prayed that she would keep her head.

“Brennen ließ ich, wenn ich könnte, dich und alle deiner Art,” she continued, stepping closer to Plisetsky.

He as Russalka looked terrified and ready to run away, but also resigned to accepting the blame she was heaping upon him.

“Und da meines Hasses Feuer, Eiseskälte meiner Trauer dir kein Haar zu krümmen mag,” she continued, her low soprano cold and hard and – good, really good. Yuuri could see why Viktor had decided on her to replace Mila in that role.

“So bete nur, dass schärfer treffen meine Hände mögen, dich zu reißen, dich zu schlagen!”

“Rache!” Yuuri joined in, his tenor weeping and full of sorrow, the spectre of a man despairing of how his loved ones were eaten up by grief and hatred. “Rache, Rache, Hass, sagt mir meine Lieben, sagt! Wozu ist's gut, was nützt's?”

He went unheard.

Mina Mix as the sister grabbed Plisetsky's Russalka and repeated her bit.

Russalka looked as if he was about to break down in tears. “Hasse mich ganz nach Belieben, wenn es dein Sein ertragbar macht,” he sighed, his water-clear tenor as heavy with grief as the Sister's alto, “Kannst es ohnedies nicht stärker, als der Hass ist, den ich heg für den, der nicht einmal mehr retten kann, das was er am meisten liebt!”

Yuuri's heart ached at these words. What had Viktor felt when he had written this? What had gone through his mind? He had said that he had started writing _Russalka_ for Plisetsky, that was all Yuuri knew and that it was very personal to him.

Plisetsky rose to shattering heights. And still he managed to sound dulled, like water infused with lead. “Kannst es ohnedies nicht stärker als der Hass ist, den ich heg für den, der mir mit kaltem, harten Schlag nahm, was ich so sehr vermiss.”

Yuuri always had the very strong urge to run downstairs and hug Viktor very, very tightly and not let go of him for a long, long time. Alternatively, he wanted to do the same thing to the water spirit he had created and who was now drowning in grief and self-hatred.

It was easy to channel these feelings into his voice. “Lasst ab, lasst ab, lasst ab vom Hass!” he begged, “Lasst los die Rache, lasst geh'n den Schmerz!” He walked over to Plisetsky and tried to take his hand.

In full costume at this point of the story Plisetsky's hands would be covered in black gloves, the darkness bleeding into his costume as a cue for the corruption that had started within him.

“Lass geh'n, verlier das Leid, find zurück zum Frieden,” he sang as piano as he would get away with.

Plisetsky looked up to him.

Russalka was moved. Russalka was almost ready to turn around, to let go, to not be filled and fuelled by revenge and hatred anymore...

“Find zurück zur Ruh,” Yuuri's Human continued, raising a hand to Russalka's face, “Find zurück zu dir...”

“Nein!” Mina Mix's Sister screamed, stumbling forward, “Nein, nein, nie, nie, nie verzeih ich's! Du! Mörder, Teufel, Ungeheuer! Auf ewig sei verflucht der Tag da du erschienst auf dieser Welt, da du fandest den Weg zu uns!”

Russalka made himself free of Human's grip and fled, chased by her, while Georgi hammered out a frantic staccato that would be later played by high strings.

Yuuri retreated into the shadows and watched as they ran, over a mark that would with proper set design be a river, he watched as the chorus of water spirits came out, looking on, he watched as Russalka screamed in terror, he watched as Sister stumbled, fell and then, with a last, unclear “Auf ewig sei verflucht der Tag da du erschienst auf dieser Welt, da du fandest den Weg zu uns!” was hidden by the chorus, her voice drowned out by their hums.

Russalka screamed.

“Zurück, komm her, nimm meine Hand!” he begged, reaching out.

The only thing they heard from Sister was one last, soft “Und da meines Hasses Feuer, Eiseskälte meiner Trauer dir kein Haar zu krümmen mag, so bete nur, dass schärfer treffen meine Hände mögen, dich zu reißen, dich zu schlagen!” as she sank into her watery grave.

“Vergebens,” Russalka whispered, “vergebens, und unnütz. Muss denn alles mir entgleiten? Kann ich überhaupt nur eine Seele schützen, hüten und bewahren? Ist denn alles zum Verderb verdammt wenn ich es nur berühr?”

“Fine!” Mr. Feltsman called.

Plisetsky let out a deep breath. He was a bit pale.

The chorus dispelled and Mina Mix scrambled to her feet. Her complexion matched Plisetsky's. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

“Next time from the start, are we clear?” Plisetsky growled and she nodded. And swallowed. “Can't make any promises, but... but I'll do my best.”

“Eh.” He shrugged.

“Better!” Mr. Feltsman called. “At least was scene. Tomorrow scene is scene from the start, Mina, hear!”

“Yes!”

Yuuri noticed that she was shaking. “That was nice,” he said. “At a few lines you were really in-character.”

“Hm. Scary. Sister is a pretty scary character and...” Mina chuckled. “Poor thing.”

“That was quite intense!” A woman called from her seat.

Angela Berger looked at her and the man who was probably her dear husband and nodded to herself, Yuuri noticed. They looked wealthy and old enough to be her parents.

“The poor girl – Miss Mix, it is no wonder you couldn't get a line out, I think I would die from all the emotion!”

Mina blushed and lowered her gaze.

“Done for today!” Mr. Feltsman called out to get them to quiet down a little. “Break now, _Fidelio_ tonight!”

In their audience Yuuri noticed some business acquaintances of Phichit – woefully absent Phichit who had to get himself through the streets of Manchester these days and was endlessly complaining about the weather in any letter he was sending to Yuuri (“Dreadful! Dresden in winter is tropical by comparison, dear Yuuri, be glad you're over there where it is nice and warm at least _some_ time of the year!”).

One of them shook his head. “This anonymity thing is quite vexing, I have to admit,” he declared. “Can you imagine, a composer and writer – an  _ artist _ –  who doesn't want to be celebrated alongside his art! Has anyone ever heard of that!”

“Quite often!” Plisetsky called before he disappeared into the wings.

Their audience took that as a cue to get up and walk up and on the backstage corridors as if they owned the goddamn place, wandering freely, touching props and decorations, shaking their heads in silent disapproval of the slight, highly organized mess that came with stage performances and sometimes rehearsals for said stage performances.

Mr. Hermann – oh wonderful, Yuuri could remember his name – sighed. “How silly, if you ask me. That man has too many fancies.”

“Vho vould ewwen knouw id 'as a man?” Another voice asked and Yuuri recognized Jean-Jaques Ilroy.

Plisetsky sighed uncharacteristically silently. “What would give you that idea, Mr. Ilroy?” he asked.

Yuuri considered checking him for fever.

Mr. Ilroy smiled brightly. “Id 'ould be ze mosstt lovel'y egsplainashion, don'd 'ou zink?”

“Indeed,” one of the women said, “Yes, what a pretty idea.” She smiled. “How romantic, yes, I would like that very much indeed.”

Being rich must be nice, Yuuri thought, being rich and having no more pressing issues on your mind than whether the anonymous composer of an opera was anonymous because of their sex.

“Or maybe it is a man and he just has some particular reasons to not show his face,” he said. “Who knows. Maybe he is old, disfigured and ugly. Or worse, bald. Or – horrors of horrors – maybe he has a rash on his face,” he said. “Might be he just doesn't want to show his hideous, hideous, bald, rashes-stricken visage to the world.”

Next to him Plisetsky snorted.

“Mr. Katsuki, really!” Mr. Hermann chided him. “Is that the way to talk about the man who gave you such a fine part?”

Yuuri shrugged. “It would be a legitimate explanation, don't you think, just as legitimate as imagining our mysterious benefactor as a beautiful, misunderstood young lady of tremendous intellect and no prospect of good marriage.”

The woman who had been so smitten with the idea of a mysterious woman composer sighed again. “Yes, that would be truly romantic.”

They continued to muse for a little longer, but since rehearsals were over they quickly left soon after, some with their respective protégées in tow.

Yuuri wished Phichit had been here. He would have found that exchange hilarious.

“Yuri.”

Both he and Plisetsky looked up to Mr. Ilroy, who looked in their general direction and still smiled a very friendly, if overly confident smile.

Yuuri had to admit that he _did_ look good and seemed pretty likeable. As long as he kept his mouth shut and his outrageously fake accent to himself, he might even find him likeable rather than harmless and silly.

“That's for me,” Plisetsky sighed a little and walked over.

Mr. Ilroy talked to him for a good while, gesturing with his hands as he did so.

Plisetsky nodded and smiled and nodded some more to him and finally, finally Mr. Ilroy laughed, shook his hand and then bid his farewells to the other singers around them as well.

Plisetsky came back, instantly making a face like he had been forced to drink curdled milk the moment Mr. Ilroy was out of the door.

“What's the matter?” Yuuri asked.

“Got invited to a party,” Plisetsky grumbled. “Ilroy's the host.”

“Oh.” Yuuri felt a little wave of pity. “Yeah, I see. You'll go?”

Plisetsky let out a deep, deep breath that spoke of a long suffering. “Got no choice, I suppose, he's my sponsor now.”

“Oh,” Yuuri said again. “Uh. That's... that's good?”

“No, it's not!” Plisetsky snapped. “You got any idea how annoying he is?!”

Ah, good, Plisetsky was healthy and well and entirely of sane mind.

“I have an inkling,” Yuuri said. “But why then?”

“Because he's annoying. I mean, he knows I'd rather listen to fingernails being dragged over a chalkboard than his stupid breathing, but he's... he's amused by it and he's not entirely dumb when it comes to social stuff and politics, I mean...” Plisetsky sighed. “Wanna say, he's an idiot and I don't like him, but there are people I want to punch more and I want to punch him for different reasons than other people and... you know, I've come to the conclusion that I am way better off if I don't get along with a sponsor too well. Only leads to trouble with people you really don’t wanna be in trouble with and - no, no, no, can deal without it, it’s exhausting enough witnessing _your_ drama day in day out.”

Now it was Yuuri who snorted. “We haven’t had any drama for how many weeks?”

“Yeah, I’m just waiting for it,” Plisetsky grumbled while his gaze wandered over the stage. Yuuri followed it and spotted Otto Becker, a folio in hand and a twitch on his usually stoic face that could almost be interpreted as nervousness.

He didn’t come up to them, but he sent Plisetsky a nod and a smile.

“So, you really don’t want your Otto to think you’d go behind his back, so you picked a sponsor you very clearly dislike-”

“And who’s so into women I feel like God’s punishing them all over again for this whole apple thing and if that is the case He’s getting a little excessive now,” Plisetsky interrupted him.

“And who has no deeper personal or… whatever interest in you anyways.” Yuuri continued undeterred. “You really _are_ in love, right?”

“Shut it,” Plisetsky grumbled.

After Otto Becker Mr. Wagner came on stage and waved for Mr. Feltsman to come.

Yuuri and Plisetsky watched as they wrapped themselves deeply into a conversation.

Otto’s folio changed hands and was opened.

Yuuri could only vaguely spot some watercolour sketches, but they were too far away for him to see anything detailed.

The pictures came back together and wandered back into the folio and more talking arose.

Then Mr. Feltsman shook his head.

Mr. Wagner on the other hand was nodding, nodding very enthusiastically even.

And Otto Becker blinked.

The talk continued for a little longer but concluded soon after with both Mr. Feltsman and Mr. Wagner shaking Otto Becker’s hand and then letting him go.

Otto of course turned right around and came to them, his face still showing intense confusion.

“So?” Plisetsky asked at once. 

Otto’s face moved into a smile and his hand twitched as if to take Plisetsky’s. “Well. Good. I think. I am not entirely sure,” he admitted.

Plisetsky rolled his eyes. “Did they say yes or no?”

“Yes. Mr. Wagner did,” Otto finally said. “So Mr. Feltsman had to say yes too. But… he was sceptical.”

Plisetsky raised an eyebrow.

“Care to enlighten me?” Yuuri asked. 

“I’ll be responsible for designing the stage sets,” Otto said. “Background paintings, placing props and such.”

Yes, great, very great!

Yuuri suppressed his grin into an enthusiastic smile. “I didn’t know you’re a painter.”

Otto shrugged. “In my past time. I attended some open classes too, still do when I have time and money for it.”

“And he’s good,” Plisetsky declared with audible pride in his voice, “Really, really good.”

“I’m not bad,” Otto amended. 

“You got a job out of it, that’s usually a good indicator of competence,” Yuuri said. 

“Hm.” Otto scratched his neck. “Mr. Feltsman was less convinced of my competence just now than last time I talked to him. I suppose it's only natural with him having so many years of experience. His standards must be extremely high.”

“Yep,” Plisetsky confirmed. Then he scratched his chin. “Thank God he and Mr. Wagner have so different tastes in so many things.”

“Hm,” Yuuri mumbled and looked to the bespoken, who were still discussing something with many, many, many angry gestures involved until Mr. Wagner finally tipped his hat with a smug smile on his face and left.

Yuuri had some doubts about the proceedings here.

“In any case,” Otto sighed, “I've got the position. Good work, good for my future and pretty good money too, so I most certainly won't complain.”

Mr. Feltsman turned around to come to them. At first, he was still wearing the same angry, utterly disgusted expression that was usual after his dealings with Mr. Wagner, but it quickly faded away as he walked up to them and was replaced by his regular gruff smile.

Yuuri found his doubts justified when he said, “You, Otto.”

Otto flinched. “Yes?”

“Tomorrow bring some details. Nice sketches, good ideas, told you so. But need more detail. Want to discuss.”

“Yes.” Otto nodded. “Thank you, despite your doubts.”

“None here.” Mr. Feltsman looked to Yuuri and Plisetsky. “Why you two still here? Not going for lunch? Need to eat. Performance tonight. Starving singers faint and fail. Go. Eat!”

They hurried away then.

 

Viktor was giggling heartily as they described what had went down upstairs, heard enough that he had to put knife and cheese away that he was currently working with. “Oh dear, oh dear, this is hilarious!” he exclaimed, “Oh, like the worst divas one has ever seen!”

Yuuri carefully took over the task of cutting the cheese.

“You can say that,” Plisetsky grumbled, “I mean, what's the deal with Yakov? Otto said he was so supportive when he first talked to him and then... then this?”

“Well, well, Yura.” Viktor ran a hand through Plisetsky's hair and was met with some hissing. “You should not complain too much, after all he got Wagner to agree to hire your Otto.”

Yuri raised an eyebrow and Viktor sighed. “Oh Yuri, dear, sweet, innocent, naïve Yuri...”

“Cut the shit.”

Viktor picked up a slice of cheese and popped it into his mouth. “By now, dear boy, you should be aware how things work between Wagner and Yakov. If Yakov likes something, Wagner will not agree to it, if he can. If Yakov had been openly positive about Otto, he would have said no.”

“I said, cut the shit,” Yuri grumbled, but he didn't sound as firm as he would have a while before.

“This is the first stupidity between them,” Viktor said, “the other is that on the other hand, at least Yuuri and Sara owed their parts in _Rienzi_ to the fact that Yakov was secretly wanking off to the idea of Wagner learning about his cast and throwing a fit.”

Urgh. “Thank you, dear,” Yuuri sighed. “My mood is ruined now. For the next few months.”

“What?!” Viktor exclaimed, “Yuuri, my love, please, tell me you're joking!”

Yuuri shrugged. “Don't know, I mean... my mood is definitely spoiled for now and probably I will always imagine Mr. Feltsman rubbing himself whenever I see him and that will also spoil my mood for the remaining day.”

“Oh, Yuuri!” Viktor whimpered.

“What – that's true?”

“What, that the image of Mr. Feltsman wanking is worse than cold water?” Yuuri asked dryly. “Try it out for yourself.”

Plisetsky shook his head. “That bit about the roles. That he gave you Rienzi and Sara Irene to piss Mr. Wagner off.”

Yuuri nodded. “He told me so himself. I mean, it wasn't only for my face, if you're worried about that, but it certainly was a factor.”

“And you knew it.”

Yuuri nodded. “Hard to not to when it's spelled out for you.”

“And you didn't disagree with it.”

“No.” Yuuri shrugged. “As I said, it was my voice, mostly, at least according to Mr. Feltsman. So what if my face for once helped me out? Lead role is lead role, no matter why exactly I was cast for it.”

“In this case childish pettiness.”

Viktor sighed. “Yura, dear. People will always be childishly petty towards each other. That is what they are people for – dear God, I think between us three  _ you  _ know the most about pettiness.”

“And what's that supposed to mean?!” Plisetsky hissed.

Viktor shrugged and then smiled. “Oh, nothing, Yura, dear boy, absolutely nothing.”

Yuuri put down the cheese knife and grabbed the bread. “Children, please.”

Viktor shot him an apologetic smile. “Sorry, dear.” He turned back around to Plisetsky. “It is just a fact, Yura, people are petty, some more, some less. The best you can do is to learn what to make of it and how to get the most out of it.”

“But they are still silly.”

“Yes, they are. But they are both grown men, as much as it pains me to admit as much about Wagner. Even acknowledging his humanity makes my heart bleed.”

“Poor love,” Yuuri cooed without an ounce of compassion.

“Yes, your poor, poor love,” Viktor sighed and Plisetsky, of course, gagged.

“In any case,” Viktor continued, “those who do not work shall not eat. Can you two please go through the dying scene again? I figured out what was bothering me about it yesterday.”

“But lunch!” Plisetsky protested. 

“First singing, then eating!” Viktor commanded, beautiful, terrible, lovely, horrible slave driver that he was. “Go warm up, you two. Should not take you too long, I suppose.”

They did as they were ordered and were joined by Viktor. “I am a little too low and human for the Elven King, but I will do,” he explained and then without much ado went on, “Närrisch, tollkühn, nutzlos Ding, das ist alles, was ich seh! Zerreißen, zermahlen, zertreten, zerfetzen! Zu nichts andrem ist da Sinn!” He exclaimed his hatred for the supposedly useless, vile human race that had soiled the beautiful earth. “Eine Schande, dass sie je gekrochen kamen auf die reine, gute, schöne Welt!” He turned to Yuuri, who was already a ghost at this point in the story. “Nichts als Elend, nicht als Schrecken, nichts als Unnütz-”

“Schweige still!”, Plisetsky screamed, lifting his hand, “schweige und stirb!” His hand went down on Viktor, touched his shoulder and Viktor, with much dramatic flailing, fell down to die, the same moment Yuuri screamed, “Russalka, nein!”

Plisetsky looked down at his hands, as if realizing what he had done. “Wie ist's mir? Als wär ich gar nicht mehr ich selbst?”

Yuuri in the same moment fell to the ground with as much dramatic flailing as Viktor had demonstrated before, causing Plisetsky to turn around, scream and come to his side.

Yuuri looked up to him and with a smile hummed, “Euch Geister flüchtig Wesen jemals zu versteh'n hat nie ein Mensch vermocht”, he quoted from their  first duet. “Am Ende konnte ich nichts wirken, am Ende war es doch umsonst.”

“So flüchtig,” Plisetsky sighed as he sank down next to him.

“Traumrichtig,” Yuuri added, taking his hands. Softer, ever softer they went on, “So war die Welt für uns und nun verrinnt die Stund', die uns noch-”

Since Human was definitely dead, gone and irrevocably removed from any form of existence Yuuri fell silent, letting Plisetsky finish the line alone.

“Bleibt...” It was a sung, high sob and then Plisetsky slowly fell over him. “Und schon naht der letzte Augenblick...” He landed on Yuuri.

Viktor nodded. “Yes. Please breathe the notes more in the last bit. You two are dying. You are still sounding far too alive for two ethereal beings in the process of ceasing to exist.”

Yuuri let out a breath. “You forget that this has to be heard in the last row too, right?”

“I know.” Viktor cocked his head. “I also know that it is possible to do. I did it very often.”

“I hate the fact that you are right,” Plisetsky grumbled. “You have no idea.”

Viktor chuckled. “You underestimate me, Yura, I have a rather clear idea. Again?”

“Yes.”

They went through the scene two more times before Viktor declared them to have improved a little and decided that it was indeed time for lunch now.

Finally, Yuuri was feeling as if _he_ was in the process of ceasing to exist.

“I will talk to Yakov too, he needs to set up a few hours of dance practise with Lili,” Viktor declared around a mouthful of cheese and bread.

Plisetsky raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“You two. I just realized watching rehearsal today. I think you will need some dance classes.”

“Didn't you write this whole _Solve three riddles and you won't have to dance_ thing precisely so we don't have to – you know – dance?” Yuuri asked with an eyebrow that was raised almost as high as Plisetsky's.

“Yes, I did. I stand by that point,” Viktor admitted. “But first – Yura is a russalka. Russalkas dance. It is what they do. So Yura will dance too. End of discussion. It will not be much, do not worry. But you will dance with the other russalkas and spirits in the beginning and you will twirl and swish around Yuuri a bit, not to mention that I would very much like you to glide more, be more graceful, instead of stomping like a petulant child.”

Plisetsky grumbled into his tea.

“One could argue that this russalka is exactly that,” Yuuri commented. 

“How cruelly you speak of my creation, love,” Viktor sighed. “Especially since you need to mind your movements too. In the second half you are a ghost. You are dead. Move like it. Dance classes help. A lot.”

Yuuri made a face. “I thought you loved me.”

“Yes, I love you, but I also love my opera and I want it performed as perfectly as possible,” Viktor declared. “You win every other day, love, so this time let us both concede the victory to the opera, shall we?”

No choice here, Yuuri realized. “Alright, alright.”

“Talk to Yakov about this whole breathing thing, though,” Plisetsky said, stuffing his face with the last bit of cheese sandwich. “He is the one directing us every day, so if you think he doesn't do something right tell him too or we'll get the heat of his anger for not singing to his liking.”

Viktor nodded. “I will talk to him about it.”

“Good. I'lI be upstairs then.” Plisetsky finished his tea then dashed off. “See you, Katsuki!”

“See you!”

Then he left and Viktor cleared off the table. “So one more person we'll have drug and drag down to Italy?” he joked. “That are many, many papers we need to acquire.”

“Hm, that might be a problem,” Yuuri hummed, “I'm intent on leaving as soon as possible, to be honest.”

“That would be?”

“I...” Yuuri calculated a little. “I think, directly after _Russalka_ has finished its runtime here. That would be enough, I think – the money would be enough to get us to Milan and get us started there.” 

Viktor nodded.

“It might be smartest, though, to not board a postal carriage in Dresden,” Yuuri added.

“Your alternative would be?”

“Leave Dresden on foot, walk for two days.”

“Urgh.” Viktor let himself fall into a chair, already exhausted from the sheer mental image. “My Yuuri is describing various ways to torture me.”

“Postal carriages are controlled pretty often and I don't want to run the risk of someone remembering your name and the fact that you are supposed to be dead,” Yuuri argued.

“Yes, about that.” Viktor sighed. “You have a point, love. If I wasn't officially dead people might still be searching for me, although in my opinion there are worse things to worry about than a sodomite or two.”

“You know how people are,” Yuuri said. “What do you think, which border would be easiest to cross?”

“Thankfully not Prussia,” Viktor mused, “they and Saxony don't like each other at all.”

“Joy,” Yuuri mumbled, “but Prussia is to the north anyways, I'd prefer us to go south – stop grinning, will you!”

Viktor did not stop grinning. “Oh, I fully agree with you on that, love.”

Yuuri rubbed his temple. No matter how much he loved this man, sometimes there were moments where he had a rather keen desire to throw a pillow at him. “In any case,” he continued, “Prussia's the wrong direction, any other suggestions?”

“I would say we'd move through Bohemia,” Viktor continued to muse, his face still twitching in that maddening grin. “Or Thuringia. Let's not go directly into Bavaria, they are pretty suspicious around the Saxonian border and they keep closely in touch with the Saxonian army and police force.”

Yuuri nodded. “Bohemia or Thuriniga, then. Would it be safe to cross over from there to Bavaria?”

“I don't know, love, if you'd ask me I would rather give Bavaria a wide berth anyways, maybe we can keep to the East, cross over the border to Austria and then head through Tyrol.” Viktor put their tea mugs one into another. “But I have to wonder why you are so keen to leave as soon as possible. It is alright if we are not gone the next moment. You could work a few more months – until then my savings would also grant a nice bit of profit, Yakov says, apparently he did some investment and trading with it, we'd have a little extra cushion.”

“Hm,” Yuuri hummed. “I kind of would like to not get caught up in any revolutionary stuff, you know.”

Viktor shrugged. “Well, then I will either say _Fear not_ or _too late_. They will either act very soon, when we are still here anyways, or they will act only a lot later when we will be gone already.”

“Hm.”

Viktor now turned to him and raised his eyebrow. “This so-called revolution is not the actual reason, is it, love?” He asked. “It is something else, right?”

“Hm,” Yuuri repeated. 

“As I said, dear, if we wait a few more months, maybe until August...”

“I appreciate the thought,” Yuuri said, “But money isn't everything. And it's precisely nothing when you're not sane enough anymore to actually enjoy it.”

“Dear...”

Yuuri looked at the table as he felt Viktor stepping behind him.

“Dear, really,” Viktor said, “I know you are nervous easily and I know you worry, but you are a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for. You are the last person I could imagine going mad from all – all – all this,” he finished, somewhat weakly. 

Yuuri didn't look up. “I wish that was true,” he said. “But honestly – I don't know how much longer I can stand this without going utterly crazy, I mean... you know how Wagner is. You've experienced him yourself. You remember, I'm sure.”

“I do,” Viktor said softly and when Yuuri turned around he briefly lifted his hand to his left eye.

“I... I am better than I would have been a year ago,” he said. “And for the most part, this is thanks to you.”

Viktor smiled at this.

“Just, I...” Again, Yuuri let out a deep sigh. “Even so. I don't know how much longer I can go on like this and what will happen next time I break down and...” He swallowed. “I don't know if I might just go mad and... and I don't want to find out.”

Viktor gently reached down, bending over him and taking his hand. “Would you believe me when I say that one does not go mad as easily?”

“On most days, yes,” Yuuri sighed.

“You will not go mad. Not at all.”

Yuuri smiled weakly and then, without thinking anymore about it, said, “I've been thinking. It might... it might be better if I quit. With the stage, with singing – at least for a while.” Now was as good a time as any, after all.

Viktor's hand fell and landed next to Yuuri's.

Yuuri didn't dare to look up.

“Well, if you think you need a break, yes. We will be on the road for some time anyways and we will need time to settle in in Italy.” There was a smile in Viktor's voice that sounded like broken glass.

“I think a month or two to recuperate will be good for you, yes. Yes.”

“No.” Yuuri swallowed. “No, I am not talking about a break. I... I might start it as a break, but honestly, if I take it I am not sure I would come back to the stage.”

Viktor's hand next to his twitched.

“Or rather, I am almost sure I wouldn't come back,” he continued.

“How come? Your voice is wonderful. I keep telling you and you know it and after a break when you have recovered from the stress...” Viktor's hand twitched again and then grabbed his.

Yuui couldn't help but move a finger over his. “No. Viktor, you remember how I started singing? What I told you?”

Viktor didn't answer.

“I... I didn't start because I wanted to, and I didn't continue because I wanted to, I... I didn't get here because I wanted to.” Slowly, Yuuri's stomach clenched up until he wanted to vomit, but he had started it, now he had to finish it.

Viktor was silent for a while. “But you do not dislike it. You like it a lot, in fact.”

Yuuri's stomach clenched up even more. “Yes. That won't change, no matter what, but...” He swallowed, gagging down the wave of nausea. “I don't know what I want for myself and... and right now the idea of going on like this is...” His breath was getting shallower, he noticed, not good, not good at all.

He swallowed. “Sorry, I...”

Viktor straightened up and then sat down at the table, next to him. “Yuuri, please... please look at me.”

Yuuri couldn't. If he looked up, looked at Viktor, looked at his face when he would start pleading with him – he would give in, he knew it and...

“I don't know,” he whispered, “I don't know what I want for myself and I never asked myself that question before until you did.”

Viktor made a soft gagging sound.

“This would be a chance to find out.”

There was a long, long silence between them.

Yuuri felt his heartbeat speed up, then slowly, slowly calm down again and then speed up again as the silence drew out.

Next to him Viktor wasn't moving at all.

When Yuuri dared to finally look at his face, it was stony, his eye wide, his lips pressed into a firm line and the only thing betraying that he was shaking was the soft movement of his hair.

“Viktor,” he whispered, “Please... please say something, please...”

Maybe he would argue again that Yuuri only needed a break, a well-deserved one for sure. Maybe he would ask why Yuuri hadn't told him about these thoughts and doubts. Maybe he would beg him to reconsider?

If he did, what would happen? Would Yuuri give in?

Would he _want_ to give in?

“Viktor... please...” he repeated, “please talk to me.”

Maybe he wouldn't want him anymore if he didn't want to sing on stage? Yuuri's heart came to a stop at the thought, only to start beating again right after.

“Are you sure?” Viktor finally asked.

“Not at all,” Yuuri admitted. Viktor deserved that much honesty. “I... I really am not, but that's precisely why I need to figure it out and... and if it turns out that I really _do_ want to do something else with my life...”

Viktor swallowed hard and said nothing.

Then he swallowed again, and again he said nothing.

“Viktor…”

Finally he swallowed a third time and then, at last he nodded. “Alright. Whatever you say.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Opening night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again, thanks for checking in!   
> Chapter 30 already. Time sure flies by and to think that in two months time I'll post the last bit... well, I'm already a little misty eyed thinking of it and I'm so grateful for you sticking with me until the end.

Chapter 30

 

Yuuri had expected to be relieved, now that he had spoken out his thoughts and fears and plans and now that this was over and dealt with. He had expected to feel lighter and in some way he actually did. Just that he did a lot less than he had anticipated, considering the fact that now he had the pressure to actually think about what he wanted to do if it was not singing.

Viktor occasionally brought up some ideas – was Yuuri good at dancing? No, not particularly – how was his writing? Never had tried his hand at it, maybe – he could be a teacher, he had a lot of patience, that would help – yes, that seemed alright, possibly.

Suffice to say, Yuuri had never done well when feeling pressured and Viktor, unwittingly and in an attempt to help, did, in fact, put pressure on him.

Yuuri couldn't even begrudge him for it. Viktor meant well. And Viktor did his best to not talk him into forgetting about it and remaining on stage.

In any case, he told himself, he still had some time left. He had time until  _ Russalka _ 's runtime ended and they would leave for Italy and then he figure it out during their journey.

Viktor had only asked for Yuuri to give his all to  _ Russalka _ , no matter what would come afterwards and it was a promise Yuuri gladly and vocally had made. After all, he had made the same promise to himself after all the first day they had heard of this opera. It was a lovely work; it deserved his best. Viktor deserved his best and for the first time in a long time – the first time since Mr. Wagner had showed up – he actually enjoyed it. He enjoyed the complex melodies and lyrics, the musical interactions with the other singers, he enjoyed working himself to exhaustion, to see a good opera coming out of it, bit by bit, day by day.

He enjoyed the idea that, after their first meeting Russalka and Human would sing on the same stage, to their own respective social circles – the chorus of spirits for Russalka, Sister for Human – mirroring each other in their confusion and fascination and the warnings people were giving them.

Surprisingly enough he even enjoyed the dance classes with Madam Barnosk. He could move his body, he could exhaust himself even more and on an entirely different level than by only singing his heart out on stage.

It was hard work, he stumbled often, even more often falling over Plisetsky when they went through the steps they had to do together.

Madam Barnosk watched them and corrected them.

They got up, they repeated the routine and they were a little better the next time around.

They made progress and it was so satisfying, so exhilarating.

“It's weird,” he whispered into Viktor's ear one evening after a massage to loosen up his sore muscles had resulted in very sweet, tender lovemaking, “it's almost like when I was a child. When I started singing. Feels quite the same.”

Viktor ran a hand through his hair, his face twitching and looking so incredibly conflicted.

Yuuri could see him trying and failing to suppress the soft glimmer of hope in his eye.

“That is good,” he then whispered. “I do want this to be a good time for you. _Russalka_ should fill you with good, happy memories.”

Yuuri snuggled closer. “It does.”

Maybe he could enjoy working on _Russalka_ more for the same reason why thinking about the future was now a lot more dreadful than he had thought. It was his last performance. He could give it his all because there was no need to save up anything for later.

Lena Freudenberg had measured all of them up the day _Russalka_ had been announced and ever since had apparently worked day and night to procure the costumes, taking great care to make sure that nobody would see any other costume than their own.

“That's the best thing about the first dress rehearsal,” she had declared to Plisetsky whom she had had behind a screen for adjustments while Martin Freudenberg was doing the same with Yuuri, “seeing the costumes of your fellow singers for the first time. That's the moment you start seeing them as their characters and that helps you getting into your character. I think. I hope.”

Plisetsky had barked a laugh at the idea and then had continued to pout that he wasn't allowed to show off his costume to anyone.

Now dress rehearsal had come and Yuuri could look at his reflection in the looking glass, sporting something that looked a lot like traditional Russian peasant garment, with a few more oriental hints here and there – a longer, elaborately embroidered hemline, wider sleeves that Viktor deemed “realistically impractical, especially in winter, but we are talking about a stage costume here” and dark, slightly puffed trousers that in their cut reminded him of Viktor's favourite pair. But at least they were lacking the ridiculous stripes.

When he stepped out of the communal dressing room – with the other men already dressed and on stage, he ran into Plisetsky, wearing a white wig with icy blue highlights, make up in the same colour pattern – white skin, icy pale eye shadow and lips and cheek bones – and a wide robe of flowing, shimmering silk that probably fell down in a straight line when the thin, silken belt was removed from his waist. The sleeves were wide, only narrowing around his wrists and the whole thing shimmered from the palest blue of snow white into a soft, bright silver grey. In his white-gloved hands Plisetsky held several veils of black gauze, transparent aside from thick veins of black velvet sewn onto them.

Yuuri looked up and down on him. “You look good,” he commented. “Water spirit through and through.”

“Thank you.” Plisetsky under all his make-up actually blushed. “I... I really like it.” He reverently touched his sleeves, and then held up the veils. “After your death I'm to put on one after the other of these. Symbolizes my corruption or something.”

“Lena's outdone herself.” Yuuri grinned. “Has Viktor designed these?”

“As far as I know, no. He had some general ideas he discussed with Yakov,” Plisetsky answered as they headed for the stage. “And then Yakov discussed the ideas with Lena, who did her best.”

“Paid off.”

He smiled and nodded to the stairway that led up to the wings. “After you, dear spirit.”

“Shut it,” Plisetsky shot back with a smile.

Yuuri still had to tell him. Both about that he and Viktor would leave and that he might quit singing. Plisetsky had no idea about either of it. Plisektsy deserved to know.

But... but...

But.

Yuuri sighed. Now was most definitely not the right time to do this. Now they had a rehearsal to focus on.

“Oh, Yuri, you look wonderful!” Mina exclaimed, walking around him with her mouth open. She wore a dress mirroring Yuuri's costume, inspired by traditional rural Russian dresses, but with something that looked far more like an obi wrapped around her waist than a girdle. The hemline of her skirt was embroidered with similar patterns as Yuuri's shirt and vest.

She looked up to Yuuri and smiled. “And you too!”

“You as well,” Yuuri smiled. “Lena did great work.”

“I know, right?”

Yuuri looked around.

The spirits wore all variations of the four same costumes, loose for those associated with water – like Angela Berger who was sporting a lot more blue and green than Plisetsky – or more form-fitting for those who were representing spirits of earth or local flora, each costume varying slightly from the others, with individual details and embroidery.

On stage, when the light was set, everyone would sparkle and shimmer at least a little, even when wrapped in shadow.

Arnold Münzer, clad in a cloak of feathers, matched Plisetsky’s silvery colour palette and was constantly lifting an arm, running a hand over the many, many, many dove and duck and goose feathers the Freudenbergs had gathered and dyed and fixed on the velvet coat, dark grey face looking entirely human in its marvel. Costumes made specifically for one singer were special. Being the first to wear an entirely new costume for an entirely new show was a treat beyond imagination.

Johannes Erhardt in his robes of what was probably a Russian-orthodox priest looked almost conventional by comparison, even though his costume sported a few more fantastical elements than Yuuri would have suspected. There were definitely a lot more feathers on his purple robes than Yuuri had ever seen on any Christian priest of any confession.

While in the orchestra pit the last few violins and oboes took their seats, up on stage another few minutes passed with them admiring the costumes like some young, up and coming society beauties complimenting each other’s new ball gowns.

It ended the moment Mr. Feltsman came out, looking up at them. He nodded. “You all dressed? Good. Look like characters. Feel like characters? I hope.” He sighed deeply.

Their conductor, Eduard Sperling turned towards him. “Is every one of your singers ready?”

Mr. Feltsman waved with his hands. “On marks! Now!”

They hurried into the wings with the Fair Folk part of the chorus staying on stage, scrambling to get to their positions.

It took maybe ten seconds, then Angela Berger called, “We're ready!”

“They ready,” Mr. Feltsman said.

The last sounds of tuning died down.

There was a moment of silence.

And then, with sweeping, light tones the overture started, flutes and clarinets twirling through the air like leaves, with only the slightest hint of string instruments.

“Nacht und Schatten, Grün und Blätter, Sonnenlicht und warmer Schein,” the Fair Folk began to describe and praise their moorish forest home, as sweetly as the slightly folkish instrumentation, “Eiseskälte, weiche Erde, macht dies Moor zu uns’rem Heim, mach dies Moor zu uns'rem Heim. Unser Heim von Menschenhand unberührt – unberührt und unbesudelt von läst'ger Menschen Atemhauch. In Frieden-” The sweetness died in the moment Yuuri stepped on stage.

“Schaut!” they called, “Was seh'n wir da!”

“Eindringling!” the earth spirits hissed.

“Störenfried!” the water sprits agreed.

“Ungewünscht!”

“Und ungewollt!”

“Hinfort mit ihm!” they then declared together again.

Human was, at least for now, blissfully oblivious to all this. “Wie friedlich ist der Wald bei Nacht, wie still hier alles schweigt,” he hummed, his baritone setting off the high notes of the fair folk who hissed and whispered at him. “Und doch – alles erwacht, alles erregt, das Blätterflüstern sacht im Wind – zischt und rauscht voll Ungestüm – wie wird mir?” He looked around in worry.

“Zum Wasser!” The spirits hissed, “zum Wasser, zum Flusse hin! Soll er tanzen, lasst ihn tanzen, tanzen soll er dort für uns!”

Music swelled as Human wandered over the stage, looking around in awe, admiring the scenery, interjected with the jeers of the Fair Folk.

Human apparently didn't hear much of it, bemoaning the fact that his life was so short, his world so small – and then he paused as the russalkas came into his view, dancing.

Yuuri's heart ached with Human as he watched and listened to the orchestra reducing itself to a few violins and violas, finding support in a single oboe.

“Kaum greifbar begreifbar trau ich kaum dem was ich vor mir seh, so flüchtig traumrichtig...”

“Versunken, traumtrunken,” the russalkas sang over him, “seht, wie er steht und schaut!” And then they danced a circle around him, daring him to dance with them, him refusing, them challenging him ever more.

“Könnt's nicht wagen, mich an euch zu messen!” Human finally denied, “Bewund’re lieber euch, wie ihr euch eures Wesens freut.”

The russalkas urged and urged, Human growing ever more scared and worried for his life and finally, finally rescue came.

Plisetsky emerged from the group. “Wenn wir fordern dich zu tanzen folgen wir hehrem Gesetz,” Russalka declared, “doch willst du nicht, was solln wir tun zu sagen, was mit dir geschehen soll? Bleibst du hier und bist du unser? Oder findest du den Weg zurück? Sprich, Mensch!”

How would Human get out of this? If he agreed to dance, as the russalkas demanded of him, according to their laws, he surely would die, if he refused even more they would kill him for sure, so what could he offer as a different gamble for his life?

In the end they settled for riddles.

Three riddles, three answers. Classical fairy tale element. Human solved the first two of them and with each moment the russalkas hissed and spat at him.

“Nun sag zum Schluss!” Russalka demanded at last. “Wenn du niemals etwas schreibst, niemals etwas schaffst, niemals etwas hinterlässt und deine Zeit so schnell vergeht – wie kommt's dass du nicht ganz verschwinds't?”

Human hummed a little over the question how mortals could be sure that they wouldn't be erased by time if they didn't leave anything behind.

It was an interesting thought, more a philosophical question than a riddle and one that betrayed Russalka's awakening curiosity for humans – or at least for Human.

Also it was a good question in general, all things considered. Yuuri was a performer of music, his impact would only last as long as he performed; Viktor on the other hand had now created something that would long outlive him.

His throat tightened at the thought and then he sighed the answer. “Erinnerung!”

Russalka cocked the head and danced around him. “Erinnerung?”

“Vergeh'n auch die Jahre, es bleibt Erinn'rung,” Human explained, “Auch wenn Zeit verrinnt, Erinn'rung hält uns vereint.” With these words he reached out for Russalka's hand and smiled.

It was enough to save his life. Russalka agreed to lead him out of the forest and they started talking in a fashion that showed a growing level of intimacy and comfort with each other, but in the end he warned him to never come into the forest again.

It was the first time for them all to work through the opera in its entirety, the whole runtime and accompanied by an orchestra. Every first dress rehearsal was special for that exact reason, but this was an opera nobody had ever heard or sung before them.

Yuuri was swept away by the music and the mood as Human and Sister talked and she expressed her worry about him.

He was brimming with excitement when Human and Russalka met again, felt desperate and angry when Sister and Priest tried to chase him away and incredibly scared when the Elven King made his move.

The scenes had always been intense – the whole opera was one big emotional ride – and by now they were somewhat used to it, but playing it through in one go was an entirely different matter.

Mina had no hang-ups, Yuuri noted absent-mindedly, too focused on his own performance to worry much. Her screams of anguish echoed over the stage as she ran, her hatred for Russalka causing her to reject his efforts to save her.

It was a good performance, very good even, and she had every right to be proud of herself. She probably was, but Yuuri could also see how relieved she was when she could leave the stage and watch.

As she rushed into the wing – during performance darkness would fall on and hide her – Yuuri could see her shiver with relief.

And his own pleading was running though his head, the desperate plea to Russalka to not loose themselves to hatred and grief.

Russalka at its core was Viktor’s gift to Plisetsky. Only later it had become a gift to Yuuri as well and right now Yuuri was keenly aware of it as he sang out Human's pleas, his fears of losing Russalka to something he had no chance fighting against.

And then the last scene for them came.

An oncoming army of spirits, ready to trample down the human settlement close to their forest, Russalka and Human together with Priest trying to protect them.

The Elven King's taunting.

Human's hopeless, desperate “Russalka, nein!”

And then it was almost over.

“Euch Geister flüchtig Wesen jemals zu versteh'n hat nie ein Mensch vermocht”, he whisper-sang, his hand reaching up to Russalka's face. “Am Ende konnte ich nichts wirken, am Ende war es doch umsonst.”

“So flüchtig,” Russalka wept.

“Traumrichtig,” Human sighed in an attempt to comfort him, “So war die Welt für uns und nun verrinnt die Stund', die uns noch-”

“Bleibt...” Russalka breathed and fell. “Und schon naht der letzte Augenblick...”

They remained lying there while the chorus came on stage.

Yuuri felt warmth on his cheeks and when he looked at Plisetsky he saw tears streaking his face as well.

“Vorbei, vorbei, ach, nun vorbei!” the Fair Folk part of the chorus lamented.

“Aus und vorbei, dahin,vorbei,” the human half of the chorus joined in and together – together for the first time, singing the same lines and the same melody, rather than in counterpoint – they wondered whether there had ever been a chance for these two – or for them as a whole – to be together. “War ein Zusammensein denn jemals möglich?”

When the chorus was done Priest stood next to them and went down on his knees. Yuuri could see that Johannes Erhardt's face was wet too. “Zusammensein wär möglich, ja, doch nicht so wie wir grad sind.”

It was a soft, whistful back-and-forth that sprung from that, what was keeping them apart.

“Furcht die einen, Groll die and’ren. Wie soll je da Friede sein? Miteinander geht nicht mehr. War's je eine Möglichkeit?”

In the meantime, Yuuri and Plisetsky got up and ushered away. Like Mina before, darkness and shadow would protect them.

“Quick, help me with these,” Plisetsky whispered while he took off the black gauze veils.

Yuuri took a few layers at once and lifted them over his head. “You alright? You're shaking.”

“You too,” Plisetsky whispered back.

“Es ging und geht!” Priest argued, “Ich weiß es sicher, wenn ich an die beiden denk. Vielleicht nicht jetzt, vielleicht nicht morgen, vielleicht auch nicht in hundert Jahr'n. Doch sind die Wunden einst geheilt, ist man bereit, sich anzuseh'n, dann, so weiß ich, dann mag's geh'n.”

“Let's go,” Yuuri whispered and reached out.

Plisetsky nodded and took his hand.

Together they walked out on stage again, coming to a halt next to Priest.

Sister came out as well, looking at Human and taking his hand. She and Russalka smiled at each other and then he hugged her.

They all filled up the stage with only the Elven King aside, on the rim of the stage; Viktor had explained that he wanted him to be lightened sharply and from underneath, while the chorus, Priest, Sister and the two leads would be cast in softer light from above, to serve as yet another contrast.

Elven King looked at them and remained silent while all of them joined into the hopeful last lines. “Ein Zusammensein ist möglich einst.”

The orchestra played the last notes and then, then...

“You know...” Andreas carefully dabbed his eyes the moment they all dared to move again. “It's great that this thing touches us all so strongly, I mean, it should and with that content it would be a major let-down if it didn't and I mean, when we're all secretly bawling like babies I think we get it across to the audience as well, but...” He took a deep breath. “I do hope we toughen up a bit over the next few dress rehearsals. I mean, we did during rehearsals before, it's just – it’s all together now.”

“Know what you mean.” Plisetsky pointed at his face. “At the very least I will spend a lot less time getting that stuff off my face.”

“True.” Andreas sighed. “I’m just not sure I can stand being an emotional mess every single evening.”

They all went back to the dressing rooms and carefully changed out of their costumes, occasionally lending each other a hand in order to not damage the rhinestone stitching and glass beads with their sometimes still trembling hands before stowing them away on hangers and in linen sacks, each one labelled with their name and role.

Yuuri was still shaking when he made his way downstairs to Viktor and he was still shaking when Viktor hugged him tightly.

Andreas was right; toughening up would be for the best for them.

Right now, though, being a little unravelled was alright. It meant that Yuuri could lean into Viktor's touch, breathe in his scent and calm down little by little while the story slowly released him from its grip.

“That was wonderful,” Viktor whispered. “I do hope you mess up the last dress rehearsal beautifully, so opening night will be just as perfect as today was.”

“How mean of you,” Yuuri mumbled, pressing him tightly against himself. “We're all nervous enough as it is.”

“I know, love. But you know how it goes.”

“Hm.” Terrible final dress rehearsal. Great first performance.

“I think you were all a bit affected, though.”

“No kidding. People living through intense emotional upheaval, dying, coming back as spirits, swearing revenge, being consumed – I wonder why we were all crying at the end.” He looked up into Viktor's face.

His lover was smiling, but his eye was a little reddened as well.

“How did you actually do that?”

“Do what?” Viktor asked.

“Write this.”

“Oh, it is quite simple, really,” Viktor joked, “All I needed to do was taking a pen, dipping it into ink, then I needed some paper...”

“Viktor!” Yuuri laughed. “I mean...” He ran a hand through his hair while Viktor led him to the chaise lounge. “How did you manage to write it without bursting into tears every other second?”

“I tell you a secret, love.” Viktor pressed a kiss on his temple. “I did not. I could not. Especially the last picture. And Sister's death. I could not write two lines without starting to cry.” He laughed nervously. “When I was editing it, it was a little better, but it was still very taxing. It did not help that I had a very hard time figuring out my own handwriting when I was writing down the new versions, due to all the blotches.”

Yuuri laughed a little. “Well, if it's any comfort to you, I think we will have no trouble moving the audience to genuine tears as well, if we can keep this up. _Russalka_ definitively deserves it.”

And again Viktor kissed his temple. “I am glad to hear that.”

 

Mr. Wagner had been absent for most of the rehearsals, the dress rehearsals included, and it had been a major factor for Yuuri's constantly good performance, at least Mr. Feltsman had grumbled so at some point.

And maybe he was right. Yuuri had the chance to find out what he never had asked for, since Mr. Wagner's blissful absence came to a sad and tragic end two weeks after the first dress rehearsal.

One day – the day of the second-to-last dress rehearsal to be precise – he sat there in one of the velvet lined chairs that they had regrown to expect Mr. Feltsman to occupy, looking up to them with a polite smile. “Good morning, everyone, nice to see you all so eager to work.”

Johannes Erhardt made a face. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

Two rows behind Mr. Wagner sat Mrs. Erhardt and raised an eyebrow at her husband.

Johannes Erhardt refused to not glare back.

Mr. Wagner, entirely unimpressed, continued to smile. “Mr. Erhardt, I am merely curious in how your hard work paid off. It has been several weeks, after all.”

Yuuri and Andreas exchanged an uncomfortable look.

“Oh, Miss Mix!” Mr. Wagner called. “Already in costume. Very good! And look at you. The Freudenbergs outdid themselves.”

Mina, a bit pale under her make-up, nodded. “They did. Thank you, Mr. Wagner.”

Mr. Wagner continued to smile.

He still continued to smile as the orchestra gathered, peacefully ignoring the dark looks Mr. Sperling shot in his general direction.

And he was also smiling when Mr. Feltsman showed up, stared at him and then proceeded to thoroughly ignore him. “Good morning. Everyone ready? Good. We begin. Position!”

They ran to their positions, then the silence before the orchestra started to play and then -

“Nacht und Schatten, Grün und Blätter, Sonnenlicht und warmer Schein.”

Yuuri desperately wanted to immerse himself into work, desperately wanted to not notice anything related to Richard Wagner, but considering the fact that the man was sitting in the chair, looking up to them that was easier said than done.

He didn't mess up his lines and he hit all the notes. That was a good start, but sadly, he didn't get much further, making for a weirdly unfeeling, unsatisfying performance.

At the very least he wasn't the only one being affected.

Johannes Erhardt grumbled, “I said I would like to end a rehearsal without crying. I didn't mean I wanted to feel nothing but disconnect.”

“Yeah, same,” Andreas sighed.

Plisetsky had been somewhat effective even today, but the lacklustre performance of the other singers had affected him, of course and he was pissed about it, that was for sure.

“If he affects you, just try to ignore him,” he sighed, “what are you, singers or schoolchildren?”

“Well, not too long ago...” Andreas started, but Plisetsky just glared at him, shutting him up and then walking off to change out of his costume.

“Easier said than done,” Andreas grumbled as they watched Mr. Wagner and Mr. Feltsman softly talking to each other. “I mean, _he_ likes Wagner, he has no trouble.”

“Hrm,” Yuuri sighed.

He would probably have to listen to the same argument from Viktor later and he was not looking forward to it.

Mr. Wagner now left with a smile.

Mr. Feltsman looked as if he would have liked to vomit.

“The boy's right, though,” Johannes Erhardt said. “I know that it's hard – Wagner likes to know he is on everyone's mind, yes. And it's even harder when you know he's singled you out for whatever reason.”

“He needs a reason?” Andreas asked.

“Yes, he always has a reason to pick on you,” Johannes Erhardt said. “In my case it was very bad right at the beginning, because I had the audacity to be married. That was before I was kind and patient enough to point out to him that I can sing a lot better when I know my loving, wonderful, sweet wife is either listening to me or waiting for me to come home. Also at some point he had the chance to speak to Agathe. For some reason he doesn't quite agree with me regarding her sweetness, but at the very least he doesn't dare to speak ill of her or of my marriage anymore.” He hummed a little tune that sounded a little like a wedding waltz.

“How long have you been married anyways?”

Johannes Erhardt flashed him a happy smile that wouldn't have looked out of place on the face of a happy groom. “Twenty-seven years next September. For our thirtieth we want to get out of town a little. Spend some time together. We have little enough of it as it is.”

That was just sweet.

“That's not a good reason,” Andreas argued. “And we all know he doesn't like Yuuri because you dared to be born anywhere else but the mid-western part of Europe.”

“And look like it,” Yuuri answered. “Don't forget the looks, the looks are very important.”

“Yes, and you look like it,” Andreas diligently added.

Johannes Erhardt shrugged as they turned to hit the dressing rooms. “I only said he has his reasons to pick on people. I never said his reasons have to be sound. Or contain even a shred of logic. Nikiforov hated him with a passion, I remember.”

Andreas perked up at the prospect of theatre gossip from the days of yore. “Oh, do tell. What did he do?”

“Who? Wagner?”

“Nah, I can imagine what _he_ did, I mean, we see it every day.”

“True, true...” Johannes Erhardt shrugged. “Viktor was – polite. Much like Sara in that regard, just with a lot more ice. And a lot more murder in his eyes.”

“ Of course. Sara is still a very fine, very well-bred young lady,” Andreas declared. “As if she could  _ ever  _ feel anything so base as murderous intent.”

Yuuri decided that, since it was unlikely that Andreas would ever see Sara again, he would not rob him of his sweet illusions.

“The best thing you can do in regards to him really is ignoring him. He is one face in a sea of faces,” Johannes Erhardt said. “Admittedly, that is easier to do when that face doesn't constantly shoot comments in your general direction. And when there are other faces around - the other faces help a lot. I always preferred rehearsals with sponsors present for that one reason alone.”

“And if not we are free to imagine an audience?” Andreas asked dryly.

Johannes Erhardt shrugged. “Whatever works for you.”

“Care to write a speech you would hold next time?” Andreas asked, “I think we could do with it.”

Johannes Erhardt laughed that it echoed through the corridor. “Can do. Don't think we need it for _Russalka_ anymore, though. If there is ever a time where we are actively allowed to be terrible, it is at The Final Dress Rehearsal Of Doom. May doom and destruction befall us, may we rise from the ashes as singing, brilliant phoenixes – phoenici? What is the plural of phoenix?”

Andreas shrugged. “No idea, but that was a nice address, Do something like that next time we need it.”

Once more Johannes Erhardt laughed. “I'll remember it. But first, let's enjoy The Final Dress Rehearsal Of Doom and thoroughly suck at it.”

“Now you jinxed it,” Yuuri sighed.

“Aw, no.” Johannes Erhardt chuckled. “Jinxed – what's supposed to happen, eh?”

 

He had jinxed it.

Friday came and with it the day of the Final Dress Rehearsal Of Doom and of doom it was, they could tell by the silence that laid over the orchestra pit. No words were uttered.

They could tell by the fact that their audience was quite limited. Dress rehearsals usually were quite interesting for sponsors and very regular patrons of the theatre, because they could watch the production of the play right at the point between rough and hard practise and finished, polished perfection on stage.

And the Final Dress Rehearsal Of Doom of course was especially coveted for its higher density of fails and mistakes and flubbed lines and inappropriate laughter. It had been that way in Milan, it sure as hell was that way in Dresden. Phichit had always found dress rehearsals immensely fascinating, especially the parts where everyone would stop dead in their tracks and then start to laugh for one reason or another.

“Is this really what’s going on in your head?” he usually asked afterwards and usually Yuuri happily explained that no, they usually didn’t consider their work to be so ridiculous, but well. Nerves could get to the best of them, especially when opening night was immediately upon them. “You can either cry, scream or laugh from the stress and when there are so many suffering with you, laughing is a lot easier.”

Yuuri would have loved for Phichit to watch the rehearsals of  _ Russalka _ , but sadly his business was of a different mind, keeping him in London for several weeks now and as his letters said he would remain there for a few more.

Depending on how long that would be Yuuri would not have the chance to say good-bye before he and Viktor left.

However, Phichit’s was not the only noteworthy absence today. In fact, their regular audience was missing in their entirety.

Instead when they came on stage Mr. Feltsman and Mr. Wagner stood there in the company of a by now strangely familiar group of finely-dressed people, in their middle the equally and strangely familiar thin, austere figure that looked like a clerk and was in fact the king. His gaunt face was doing something that resembled a smile.

Yuuri noticed that, as usual, he was in the company of his wife and two of her ladies-in-waiting. Additionally there were the requisite two ministers of his staff, his brother, the prince, and the queen’s sister.

And also the dark-eyed, sharply smiling Lola Montez.

Yuuri looked down, his gaze meeting Mr. Feltsman's - impossible to read - Mr. Wagner's - impossibly smug - and then next to himself his fellow singers - impossible to not note the confusion.

“Our audience today,” Mr. Feltsman declared. “Your Majesties, Highnesses, Ladies, Gentlemen, the singers.”

Yuuri bowed, along with the other men. The women tried their hardest to perform a proper curtsy in their costumes.

The queen took them all in. “You do not usually rehearse in costume, right? For _Fidelio_ you did not.”

“Because the opening night was not close, your Majesty,” Mr. Wagner explained. “Before we play through the whole opera we need to make sure that every part of the whole is perfect, of course. And when every part is perfect, then we go through the performance of it as a whole. When we do that, it is best, of course, to wear the costume to get used to moving in it.”

“I see,” the queen nodded. “Well, it is hard work, I am sure?”

“It is,” Mr. Wagner went on and he was still smiling. “If you want to watch from your box, your Majesty?”

“Oh, I think the seats near the pit would be charming,” Lola Montez, commented. “Closer to the singers. We can see a lot more from there.”

“Well, to see the whole picture the boxes would be a lot better,” Mr. Wagner said, “but of course, if you want to sit and look up to them rather than down on, I am sure you will have a fine reason for it, Miss Montez?”

“May I ask for the reason of your presence?” Johannes Erhardt asked.

The Montez just shrugged. “Oh, nothing. Bavaria is a little too lively right now for me. Saxony, by comparison, is a spa resort.”

Well, if she insisted, Yuuri would most certainly not argue with her.

She looked around. “Miss Sara Crispino is not around, I see?” she asked, “And Mila Babitch neither? I had hoped to see them in a performance together again. Miss Crispino's Irene was wonderful. And they both were brilliant in this opera with the water spirit and that awful knight...”

“ _ Undine _ ?” Plisetsky offered.

“Yes, thank you – oh, you. I remember you too, another lovely voice.”

“Thank you,” Plisetsky answered, rather stiffly.

That at least made The Montez laugh. “Too bad I didn't have a chance to see them here. But I'm sure there are more new talents to discover.” She shot a glance to Min a Mix and Angela Berger.

Mina of course turned a deep shade of red, but Angela Berger did, in fact not seem overly impressed with that stranger.

“It is just a shame that I didn't get to listen to these two again,” Lola Montez sighed. “The one time I got to talk to them they did not seem to consider leaving Dresden, though.”

“ Both of them received generous offers from the  _ Scala _ ” , Mr. Wagner said, “and who are we to try and keep them here when they wish to get ahead in life?”

Lola Montez nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, yes. One should never try and chain a woman wishing to leave to himself, she will make your life a waking nightmare.” She smiled as if reliving a sweet memory of making someone’s life hell herself. “Or at least she should.”

“If you say so, Miss Montez,” Mr. Wagner said and pursed his lips before he returned his attention back to the Royal family. “Shall I accompany you to your box?”

“If we don’t steal your time, of course,” the king said. “Mr. Feltsman, would you join us as well?”

Mr. Feltsman shook his head. “Place is here. Work is here.”

“Of course.” The queen nodded and they took their leave.

The moment they had disappeared through the door Plisetsky’s face contorted into a mask of suppressed laughter. “Katsuki, are you still writing to Milan?”

“Of course, yes.”

The boy snorted. “Do me a solid one. Tell Mila and Sara.”

“What?” Yuuri raised an eyebrow.

“Do it, please. Please, please, pretty please? They’ll be so pissed when they hear about this, can you imagine?”

Yuuri shook his head. “I bet we could hear their screams of anguish all the way back from Milan. Has anyone ever told you that you’re an evil, evil, _evil_ person?”

“Everyone I ever spoke more six words to,” Plisetsky answered proudly.

“I'm not surprised at all,” Yuuri sighed.

“You gonna tell them?”

Yuuri grinned. “Of course I'll tell them.”

“Attention!” Mr. Feltsman snapped.

Silence fell over them.

Mr. Feltsman looked around. "Important day, today,” he said, looking around. “Worked hard, you all. Good work.”

Yuuri felt almost as if Opening Night was already upon them, the auditorium packed with people all in their finest clothes, waiting for the curtain to rise.

Mr. Feltsman looked around. “Show work today. Show work at Opening Night. Be proud of work, be proud of you. Great cast to work with.”

Next to Yuuri, both Plisetsky and Andreas beamed with pride and judging by the way his face felt, he was doing the same.

Mr. Feltsman nodded. “Do work hard. If mess up – is Final Dress Rehearsal Of Doom. Is alright. If not mess up – is good. I am proud. Very proud. You hear?”

“Yes,” They mumbled as the music began to rise and with it the curtain and the moment died as if under the swift stroke of a sword.

They all rushed to their places.

“Nacht und Schatten, Grün und Blätter, Sonnenlicht und warmer Schein,” the chorus began and they were on and in their own world of song and tragedy.

Russalka and Human met and parted again, with only one light hang-up for Yuuri.

Sister was worried.

Russalka and Human met again and became friends and Sister grew even more worried and ultimately went to Priest, who commented on her long face. “Mädchen, was soll denn dein Schmollen, sag, du schaust so finster drein.”

“Wie auch anders sollt ich blicken; Priester sag, weißt du nicht-”

“Rat?” Johannes Erhardt's Priest cut short Sister's plea for help and advice, answering in the same breath. “Rat mag ich vielleicht gar wissen – sag mir nur erst, was dich grämt.”

Sister tried again to go on about her situation. “Des Bruders Not-”

“Er ist in Not?!” Priest cut her short instead.

Mina perfectly affected a face of utter exasperation, mixed with the desperation to get someone, anyone to listen to her, as she was interrupted by the men in her life over and over again. “Wird’s bald sein, ich seh es schon,” she explained, “Ein zu gutes Herz hat er, das ist dir, ich weiß,-”

And again she was interrupted.

“Er ist in Not?”

“Wird’s bald sein, ich seh es schon,” Sister explained her troubles with her brother’s too prominent good nature, “Ein zu gutes Herz hat er, das ist - ich weiß -”

“Ein gutes Herz, oh ja, ich weiß,” Priest cut her off once more and Yuuri once more could watch the intense frustration on Mina Mix’ face, not about her performance, but actually in character who very clearly wanted to tie a knot into every single tongue that was used to prevent her from finishing her sentences.

“Doch davon hat man nie zu viel,” Priest finished kindly.

Sister tried again. “Wenn man es einem Teufel-”

And failed.

“Teufel!” Priest exclaimed.

The scene went on with sister finally being able to explain uninterrupted how the evil, evil Russalka had set up quarters in the stream behind her house and how her brother would spend every waking hour with him, ignoring all her warnings and worries.

Mina Mix punctuated the play by always being on her back foot about being cut off again, carefully trying to finish her sentences.

Johannes Erhardt on the other hand was occasionally moving as if Priest wanted to say something yet again.

It was one of the only two scenes in the whole opera that could be considered funny and it was, but Mina Mix had also decided to give it a more tragic angle, simply by portraying Sister as someone both very used to and incredibly annoyed by people’s habit of talking over her.

Yuuri had to wonder how many hours she and Johannes Erhardt had put into the scene only between themselves. The timing was spot on.

Despite the tragedy of Sister it was still quite amusing to watch and when Yuuri as Human came out to sit and talk with Russalka he could see that the king and his entourage in their box were indeed smiling. Hopefully they could enjoy it while it lasted. It wouldn’t last long anyways.

Human and Russalka compared their different lives as mortal being of the physical world and immortal spirit linked strongly to the same world while being part of another.

“Nur ähnlich ist’s wenn Menschen sterben, nur diese sind uns irgend nah,” he hummed.

“Sterben,” Human repeated musingly.

Apparently this was scaring Russalka and he went on to make Human promise not to die anytime soon for whatever reason - Russalka liked Human the way he was, alive and corporal and able to touch him.

Yuuri never could shake the impression that this part alone would convince most potential future directors to have Russalka sung by a woman.

Priest and Sister came, screaming at Russalka to leave Human alone since all he was doing was plotting how to kill him and bring misery to people, since - of course - this was the only thing evil, horrible, hellish spirits like Russalka were capable of.

“Und-” Yuuri started and then faltered.

“Hang-up?” Plisetsky asked as the music died.

Yuuri nodded. “Sorry.”

“Everything alright?” Mr. Wagner called down to them. “Something the matter?!”

“Is rehearsal!” Mr. Feltsman called “Mistakes happen! Again!”

Yuuri sighed.

The music started, Priest once more called, “Kannst's nicht lassen, ist doch deine wahre Art!”

“Und doch leb ich immer noch und doch bin ich unbeschadet!” Human argued, pleaded, desperately for them to be reasonable, since he was still alive and well and unharmed. “Wäre ich nicht längst schon fort, läg ich nicht schon im nassen Grab?”

“Und wär es so,” Russalka joined into the argument, “wo läge dann die Schuld für mich? Wär Schande, was mein Sein mir sagt, wär ich dann wirklich schlecht? Wäre Schande, was mein Sein mir sagt, wäre ich dann wahrlich bös?”

A moment of confused silence, punctuated by the confused thrilling of flutes.

“Und da ich nicht schad, nicht schaden will, da euer Bruder mir so lieb,” Russalka continued to argue, “bin ich dann nicht, was ihr _nicht böse_ nennt?”

“Hinfort!” Priest tried to chase him away. “Hinfort, hinfort!” He raised his hand and waved a vial that - everyone in the audience hopefully would understand - contained blessed water.

“Lass ihn!”, Human screamed and jumped in front of Russalka, raising his arm.

“Schütz ihn nicht!” Prist demanded, “Ist besser so!” And again he waved with the vial and again Human yelled, “Lass ihn!” and a skirmish ensued that ended with the blessed water landing on Russalka who flinced dramatically, but then looked at himself and realized that nothing was happening.

“Nun hinfort-” Priest wanted to yell, but then realized – just as everyone else – that the blessed water did nothing to Russalka.

Russalka had an aria musing about his nature and how he could exist and be evil if God had made the world and was ultimately good – or whether it was simply the case that God didn't exist?

The scene played out with Priest and Sister grudgingly accepting Russalka and reconciling with Human.

Yuuri's hang-up was the only mistake today. Maybe it was due to their audience. Maybe it was the serious speech Mr. Feltsman had given them. It was hard to not feel like it was The Big Day already.

The quality of their performance certainly profited from it.

The last scene played out. They stood there, holding hands, giving a promise of living together someday, sometime, when the wounds they had inflicted on each other would have healed.

Maybe it should be the other way around. Maybe living together was what would cause the healing process.

But it was Viktor's opera. And it was done and finished and Yuuri would very much not try and talk Viktor into changing anything about this wonderful, wonderful piece he had created.

They practised their bows and curtsies and the retreat. Then Mr. Feltsman clapped his hands. “Confrontation with Russalka, Human, Sister and Priest again!”

They played through the scene again without any mistakes and then another round, just to make sure.

Then it was over.

“ Urgh.” Yuuri wiped his brow, leaning against a beam. “Ugh, urgh, urgh –  _ urgh _ !”, he repeated for emphasis. “Now  _ that  _ was exhausting.”

“You say it,” Plisetsky sighed.

“This whole thing is exhausting,” Johannes Erhardt agreed, dabbing his eyes. “And satisfying.”

It was, Yuuri had to agree, even if the satisfaction came only after so, so, _so_ much work.

“So the Dress Rehearsal Of Doom went well,” he said. “Any ideas what this spells for opening night?”

“-ual final Dress Rehearsal, your Majesty, most unusual,” Mr. Wagner was just saying as he and the king and his posse came back to them. “Usually there are a lot more mistakes. It is the one time singers are allowed to be actually nervous. I admit, I do hope this does not spell trouble for the Opening Night?”

Mr Feltsman shrugged. “Not think so,” he said. “Singers be nervous, always are. Are more nervous when singing for His Majesty. Can make them more focused when reminded to focus.” He lifted his chin. “Did not want to be bad in front of Majesties and Highnesses and Lords and Ladies.”

“And all this at the Final Dress Rehearsal Of Doom,” Mr. Wagner said. “It is an odd choice to have everyone be so utterly focused now. Will that mean Opening Night will be as underwhelming as the last dress rehearsal?”

“Fuck him,” Andreas grumbled softly enough to not be heard by anyone but Yuuri and Plisetsky.

“Not if you'd pay me,” Yuuri shot back. "Ew!"

Mr. Feltsman seemed to share their sentiment. His shoulders were very square. “Singers know they are good. Will do me proud. _Are_ doing me proud.”

“They are, indeed,” the king said.

“They are even better for the material they get to work with,” Lola Montez girred. Somewhere up above them Viktor was hearing this and dying with pride.

“Singers are good and Singers are proud,” Mr. Feltsman continued. “Wanted to impress Majesties. And Highnesses and Lords and Ladies.”

“They certainly did,” Princess Amalie Auguste said with a smile. “Very impressive, yes. I had to keep myself from crying. Poor Russalka. Poor Human. His poor sister.” She sighed. “Everyone is so tragic, it is beautiful.”

“Russalka's resolve to kill the Elven King was wonderful,” Lola Montez added. “It is horrible how his revenge is consuming him, but it is also for a very good reason and he is railing against a cruel, hard king – one wants to see him succeed, despite what it would mean.”

The queen, the princess and the two other ladies smiled more or less tearfully.

The men of the round nodded more politely and with a lot less emotion behind it.

Mr. Feltsman nodded with them. “Is good sentiment. Good if my singers got it across. Good when they will get it across in future. On Opening Night? The Majesties will attend?”

“Oh, of course!” Queen Maria Anna declared.

“I suppose, the lighting will make quite a difference,” a man said who, Yuuri recalled, went by the name of Theodor Uhlig, but he couldn't remember his association to the king, only that he – like Lola Montez – was not officially a member of the Royal Court. “Would be nice to see it.”

King Friedrich August nodded. “Yes, yes – we have this lovely box, after all. Maybe we should make use of it a little more often. You will accompany us, of course?”

Mr. Uhlig smiled at the suggestion. “If it pleases Your Majesty. And of course Your Majesty,” he added with a bow to the queen who smiled a very tight-lipped smile and nodded.

The king clapped into his hands. “Wonderful. Well, this was a delight. Mr. Wagner, you promised us a most interesting morning and the morning delivered. We are looking forward to seeing  _ Russalka  _ staged when it premieres.”

“Good,” Mr. Feltsman gruffed. “ Will be good.”

To Mr. Wagner's credit, he at least tried to look happy and mostly succeeded. “Yes,” he agreed, smiling, “I am sure it will be a good performance.”

“Most definitely,” Lola Montez declared, “it is always a special treat to see good music performed by good singers and a good orchestra, directed by authorities that have actual knowledge of and trust in their abilities.”

“Something I always found both rather surprising and oddly charming about Mr. Feltsman,” Mr Wagner hummed. “Despite his harsh character he can be oddly fatherly to people he takes a liking to.”

Mr. Feltsman shrugged. “Am Russian,” he explained, “is way to deal with cold and way to keep heart and body safe and warm.”

“Russians are used to the cold though,” Princess Amalie Auguste said with a curious smile tucked around her lips. “I am sure you would need a lot less protection against the cold than any of us do, right?”

Again Mr. Feltsman shrugged. “Eh. Am Jew. Maybe some Russian things not apply to me. Maybe is same as with laws. Some apply, some not, some are only made for us.”

The king shot him a rather peculiar look. “Our laws concerning the Jews here are not too bad,” he said at last, sounding oddly defensive about it.

“They exist,” Plisetsky answered rather than Mr. Feltsman himself.

Mr. Feltsman shot him a funny look from the side, while Mr. Wagner in turn smiled a thin-lipped smile.

“My dear boy, you need to remember that these laws are mainly concerned with the protection of Jews and are to ensure that they can live their lives without bothering anyone and without being bothered by anyone. Surely it is a good thing they exist?”

Under his make-up, already smudged and slightly tear-streaked as it was, Plisetsky turned beet-red.

“I suppose,” Prince Johann said slowly, “Jews mostly see the way laws are bothering them and less the way they are beneficial to them. It might be like that in many cases. And of course people sympathetic to them will share their ideas.”

Plisetsky grew even redder.

“Complaints can of course be very useful,” the prince continued, nodding thoughtfully along to his own words. “Of course, as you all know best, it all depends on tone and context.”

There was a moment of silence in which more than a few eyes wandered to the king, who just stood there, listening with an expression so blank and neutral that Yuuri didn’t dare to guess how much effort it must take him.

“Well,” the queen said at last, “well, it has been an interesting morning. A wonderful distraction from our day-to-day worries.”

“Very educational,” the princess agreed.

“Awfully entertaining,” Lola Montez hummed.

The other ladies in their entourage chirped their agreement.

The king shook Mr. Wagner’s hand, then Mr. Feltsman’s. “I agree with these beauties, it was a good way to spend the morning. Thank you, Mr. Wagner, for suggesting it.”

Again Mr. Wagner made an effort to look genuinely pleased and happy about the praise. “Let us just hope that the premiere will be just as delightful.”

“I am sure about it,” the king smiled. “Until then, please stay well and healthy. We are looking forward to your perfected performance.”

They once more bowed and curtsied as the king and his entourage turned around to leave.

Mr. Wagner looked after them and then turned towards them. “I have to agree with the king,” he said with an attempt at being kind. “Mr. Feltsman, I once again find myself impressed with the miracles you can work with them. Miss Mix suddenly seems so sure. As if she truly belonged on the stage.”

Yuuri watched Mina’s face fall.

Plisetsky made a face.

“Mr. Katsuki, it is so enjoyable to hear you finally grew confident in your own skills, at least a little more than before, rather than relying on your partners to save your backside.”

Yuuri wanted to snap that he had been confident in his own talents for quite some time by this point, but - but one man was able to shake it. And he wanted to quit.

He bit his lips. It didn’t change the fact that he wanted to punch Richard Wagner in the face.

Mr. Wagner let his gaze wander. “Miss Berger sounds very nice, Kästner and Münzer turned out to have the stuff for a solo singer, who would have thought. Of course Mr. Erhardt has no bone in his body that would disappoint.” His eye turned to Plisetsky. “Sadly though, some of our singers have progressed only professionally, while regressing mentally. Too bad.” He shook his head. “It is good to see them all in such good care. I can rest assured that I will take over the reins again shortly and will not need to worry to have to start from scratch again like I had to last August.”

Another reason to consider actually allowing Viktor to make good of his threat and drop a chandelier on his head, Yuuri considered.

Plisetsky was rather pale as he watched Mr. Wagner walk away and his throat moved rather heavily as he swallowed.

Then, at last, he took a deep breath. “Well. That happened.”

Andreas turned to him and raised an eyebrow and must have done it so obviously that Plisetsky in turn turned right to him and asked, “What?”

“Not shattered?” Andreas asked, “Not even a little?”

Plisetsky raised his eyebrow even more. “I think we all got better things to do with our time than thinking about what one person has to say about us. Like getting rid of that make-up. And then get into our own clothes, how about that?”

“Sounds good,” Yuuri sighed and grabbed his arm. “Let’s go, yes?” He slipped his arm around Plisetsky’s shoulder after they had taken a few steps away from the main group.

Plisetsky nodded and only now, that they were a little further away from anyone else to hear he mumbled, “Ass.”

Yuuri pressed his shoulder in sympathy. “Wanna go for a drink tonight?”

“Sounds good.”

 

And then, only two short days later it was the big day. Opening Night Day.

Yuuri had stayed over in the cave and as he woke up - far too early and after a far too short night - he found himself not wrapped by two long sinuous arms and pressed against a slim body. Instead, the other side of the bed was utterly and entirely empty.

Yuuri almost felt abandoned, especially as he heard the sounds of Viktor moving around and about in an attempt at making breakfast.

For one short moment Yuuri was tempted to remain in bed and just call to him to please, please, _please_ return to bed and stay with him a little longer until they would have no choice but getting up because Plisetsky would come down and yell them out of their warm, comfy nest and be mad at them for staying in bed for so long on the day of Opening Night…

… Opening Night.

At once Yuuri was sitting straight up. It was April 15th, the day of Opening Night for  _ Russalka _ . The thought hit Yuuri like lightning and left him just as shivering as he got out of bed.

Opening Night. They would perform for a full house, that much he already knew. The tickets not reserved for their most faithful patrons had been sold out two weeks ago and Yuuri strongly suspected that the mystery surrounding the anonymous composer and librettist had been a strong factor in people’s fascination and curiosity.

Opening Night. He would sing the role Viktor had created for him - _for him_ \- for real, for the first time, for an audience, for Viktor, for perfection.

Opening Night. The night they needed to excel. The night everything depended on. If they were great today, or even just good, if they could get the work itself shine through whatever they themselves brought to the table - then, without a doubt, _Russalka_ would be loved by anyone, _Russalka_ would be a success. And no way could they fail, they all had put so much work into this, so much energy, so much love…

Opening Night. Opening Night. Opening Night.

Opening Night.

It was the night that would maybe, probably spell the beginning of the end of his stage career. And then a new life, a life with Viktor, a life in Milan. No matter what else he would decide on, he would always have that. This would always remain with him.

Yuuri took a deep breath and then swung his legs out of bed, then walked over into the kitchen area.

There Viktor was, walking around, reaching for mugs and plates and cutlery with sharp-edged movements that barely managed to conceal the shaking of his hands.

“Morning,” Yuuri said.

Viktor flinched and then turned around to him. “Oh. You are awake. Good morning, dear!” He shot him a smile, but it was as wobbly as his hands.

“You’re up early,” Yuuri remarked and came closer. He wrapped his arms around Viktor’s waist and then softly whispered, “Nervous?”

Viktor laughed shakily. “It is that obvious?”

“Just a little,” Yuuri tried to reassure him. “And I think it’s normal. If I’m nervous on opening night of a new opera, how would the creator feel?”

Viktor smiled at his words. “Like a novice at their first medium large solo, I am afraid. It has been a long time since I was that nervous. When it comes to music, at least.” He pressed a short kiss on Yuuri’s lips. “On a more emotional level I was just as nervous at the opening night for _Undine_ back then. You remember?”

“Clear as day,” Yuuri whispered against his lips. “If it is any comfort to you I was on the verge of an heart attack all day.”

“Would have been a tragedy,” Viktor declared at once and pressed kisses on his brow, cheeks, nose and lips until Yuuri started to giggle.

They remained like that for quite a while until Plisetsky - very noisily, admittedly - entered the cave and cleared his throats. “You,” he declared, “Are disgusting, utterly disgusting, beyond salvation.”

They turned around to face him and Yuuri felt Viktor grin against his cheek. “Good morning, Yuroshka, how do you feel?”

“It’s Opening Night Day, how do you think I’m feeling?” Plisetsky grumbled.

“ _Hair-tearing-out crazy_ it is then,” Viktor declared, “wonderful, I was feeling quite lonely here.”

“Spare me,”Plisetsky sighed, “I just… can it please be over? Like, right now?”

“Same,” Yuuri mumbled. “I _hate_ opening nights. This one especially - sorry, Viktor. I love your work and love working with it, but I’ll feel better when it is over and we did well and people know how brilliant you are and _Russalka_ is and we don’t have to prove anything to anyone anymore.”

“You are not alone in that,” Viktor sighed. “Anyways. You brought breakfast?”

“Sure did,” Plisetsky declared and lifted up the basket with buns, jam, cheese and ham. A veritable Sunday breakfast, Yuuri found, his mouth watering.

Still, he found himself strangely lacking in appetite as he sat down to eat.

Viktor was equally listless as he nibbled on his bun.

Listlessness was the general mood in which they spent their day, Plisetsky leaving them after a while to probably spend time with Otto Becker in an attempt to calm down.

Viktor himself sent him upstairs to avoid them “driving each other absolutely crazy,” as he put it.

So Yuuri went back upstairs and tried to get through the day one way or another, be it by wandering the inner city - he stuck to the area close to the theatre and to the riverbanks, which of course meant that he was done wandering very, very soon - or getting himself lunch - in itself only a matter of half an hour at most - wandering the city some more - which he was done with very soon once again, then maybe wandering into an used book store, but he could not stay there for long before getting itchy about getting back to the theatre, getting back to where he was supposed to be. He wanted to be with Viktor, hoping that Viktor’s presence could calm him down, but then again, Viktor was just as frazzled and frayed as he himself was, so the answer was most definitely  _ No _ .

So hours passed in a fog of nervous energy that he was just straight-up unable to release and if this went on he would start to scream…

But he did not scream.

When the time came he walked into his dressing room - the one he had occupied before, he noted with fondness; either destiny had been smiling on him or Mr. Feltsman had made sure he was getting the same dressing room as before - and with strangely calm and steady hands undressed and peeled himself into his costume.

He looked at himself in the mirror. It was still him there. No make-up yet, nothing that would mark him as the tragic hero that he was supposed to portray. Just plain old him.

Rehearsals had gone well. That one time aside they had all always been very focused, they had all improved vastly. Mina was secure about her lines, she was secure about her place on the stage, Andreas and Johannes Erhardt were as reliable as ever and...

Yuuri took a deep breath.

He and Plisetsky got along wonderfully on stage. They were supposed to portray a desperate friendship that would ultimately destroy them, they were to play it with serious romantic subtext.

It helped that he and Plisetsky had some really good chemistry going on when playing opposite of each other. Which was probably mostly Plisetsky's doing, it was almost impossible not to be sucked in by his energy.

He would be fine.

He would be fine.

He would be fine, Opening Night would go over well, in a few they would have swept the audience off their feet, they would adore the opera, they...

He. Would. Be. Fine.

There was a knock on the door.

Yuuri remained as he was. “I'm fully dressed, come in.”

The door opened with a soft creak and then Plisetsky ushered in. “Not done yet?” He himself was, wearing his silky-grey robe and make-up. The only thing missing was the silvery-blue wig, but his hair was already compressed under a fine silk net.

“We've still got time, right?” Yuuri smiled up to him. “I need a little to get into it.”

“Nerves?”

Yuuri carefully listened into himself. “No. I'm nervous, yes, but – no nerves.”

Plisetsky's eyebrows shot up into the air. “Now that's new.”

“Not _that_ new,” Yuuri grumbled.

“Who are you, what did you do with that idiot who fell for Viktor?”

Now Yuuri rolled his eyes and now finally started to apply his make-up, a tan foundation to give him the sun-burnt peasant look his role called for. “Nothing. I'm just alright. And I - “ Once more he took a deep breath. “Well. I want Viktor's work to be performed and presented as perfectly as possible. I can't do that when I'm losing my head.”

Plisetsky nodded. “I see.”

“And... and I've been trying to get a grip on my nerves. About time I am actually successful in that.”

“I am glad to hear that, love,” Viktor commented from behind the screen that usually hid his entrance.

Yuuri finished his foundation before turning around. “How are you feeling?” he asked sweetly as Viktor came out of his corner.

He looked good, hair combed and tied back with a green velvet ribbon; only a shock of hair remained free, falling over the left side of his face. And he was dressed exceptionally well, wearing a crisp white shirt, a silvery-green vest and trousers and jacket in the same colouring.

Plisetsky looked him up and down and then raised an eyebrow. “When was the last time you wore fancy clothing?”

“I _always_ wear fancy clothes,” Viktor answered. “About which you always complain about to no end, my dear boy.”

“Let me rephrase that, when was the last time you wore clothes that are fancy and considered appropriate for fancy occasions by the larger portion of society?”

Viktor smiled. “It is the premiere of my first opera. It is my debut, so to speak, so why shouldn't I prepare myself just as carefully as any young maiden entering the world of adult society? How do I look?”

“Appropriate,” Plisetsky said.

“Wonderful,” Yuuri declared the same moment. “It's just a pity nobody but us will see it.”

“It is alright.” Viktor came to Yuuri, bent down and – despite the make-up clinging to his lips – kissed him. “You are enough.”

“Urgh,” Plisetsky commented.

Yuuri happily ignored him. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

“Very, very, _very_ nervous. I would love to hide somewhere, if only I was in a position that required me to go into hiding once more.”

“Don’t you dare,” Plisetsky growled. “We worked our asses off for this. You stay and watch us as well as people falling in love with it, you hear me?

Viktor sighed and then nodded. “Yes. I know. I know they will like it. The orchestra is without fault, the chorus spot-on, the lead singers…” He sighed deeply. “Thank you, you two. _Russalka_ would not exist without you.” With that he bent over, wrapping his arms around him tightly and then pressed a kiss into his neck. Then he turned to Plisetsky and pulled him into his arms. He whispered something and ran a hand over Plisetsky’s back and was hugged back.

At last Plisetsky mumbled. “Stop it, yeah? I don’t want to redo my make-up.”

“Of course,” Viktor said and let go of him. “Well then. Go out and make the audience cry. I will go and look for a nice spot to watch.”

With that he turned around and walked away.

Plisetsky came up to Yuuri. “Finish up, will you,” he said, “or we'll be missing Yakov's address along with the warm-up.”

“Alright, alright.” Yuuri sighed and then returned his attention to the mirror and finished lining his eyes and pronouncing his cheeks.

He noticed that Plisetsky was still standing behind him, watching him as he finished his make-up and shook and combed his hair into place.

“You're done?” he finally asked and Yuuri nodded. “Good. Let's go, we're running late as it is.”

They left the dressing room and hurried to the stage, arriving last; everyone else was already here, gathered in the darkness of the lowered curtains.

The air was thick with nervous energy, with people shifting from one foot to another, hands running over the fabric of a costume, a barely suppressed, nervous laughter and many, many very tense faces.

Mr. Feltsman looked at them. “Are late.”

“Sorry,” Yuuri sighed, “we...”

“Nerves?” Mr. Feltsman asked sharply. “No time for that.”

“Sorry, Mr. Feltsman,” Yuuri mumbled.

“Sorry, Yakov,” Plisetsky sighed at the same time.

Mr. Feltsman huffed. “Warm up now! Not much time.”

They all nodded and then for a few moments there was silence, interjected by sharp, hissing sounds of breathing out.

Then the first harmonies arose, intermingled with each other, slightly atonal until the singers found harmony with each other.

Mr. Feltsman listened to them.

Nodded. And then said, “Enough.”

Silence fell over them as he looked around, his hands folded behind his back, looking very formal and impressive in his black evening suit – he always looked rather impressive when he dressed up for performances with adjoined social gatherings, but today Yuuri found it even more pronounced.

Maybe it was the way he beamed with unadulterated pride. “Said before,” he said, “am proud of you. Good work. Improved a lot. Good singers in good opera. Worked hard. Paid off. A lot.” He nodded sharply. “Will do me proud today, I know.”

“Yes,” they mumbled together.

“Good. Now go out. Go be great. Give good time to them!”

“Yessir!” they all called.

Mr. Feltsman shook his head. “Only funny when Georgi does it.” He clapped into his hands. “Position now! Position!”

Muffled through the curtain they could hear silence fall and then the orchestra start the first few notes as they hurried to their spots.

Then the curtain rose.

The music swelled, the chorus sang.

“In Frieden-”

Yuuri stepped out on stage, left himself behind, the spotlight was on him-

“Eindringling!”

“Störenfried!”

-and for the briefest of moments he was no one-

“Ungewünscht!”

“Und ungewollt!”

-he was nothing, not there-

“Hinfort mit ihm!”

-until the music gave him his cue.

“Wie friedlich ist der Wald bei Nacht, Wie still hier alles schweigt,” Human declared in the softest of soft piano, “Und doch – alles erwacht, alles erregt, das Blätterflüstern – sacht im Wind – zischt und rauscht voll Ungestüm – wie wird es mir?!”

He didn't see the audience in their seats as they watched and couldn't take their eyes off him. He barely even saw Mr. Feltsman in the wings, looking on.

All he saw was Russalka, dancing with the other spirits, all he heard was their challenge to join them, nothing else but the story as it happened to him and as he made it happen.

And he understood.

“Deine Worte grauen mir! Immer zieht's dich weg von allem, was dir sollt am nächsten sein! Warum kannst du's denn nicht lassen? Warum treibt's dich immer fort!” Sister cried out to him, hanging on his arm. “Geh nicht wieder – ich beschwör dich – geh nicht ins Moor in dein Verderben!”

He understood Sister's plea to her brother, her worries, her fear to lose him to something she couldn't understand and couldn't share in.

He understood the deep relationship between Human and Russalka, born of mutual fascination and admiration.

“Doch nie sieht man euch je für lang, seid rasch vergangen, reift und schwindet viel zu schnell. Kaum lohnt es sich kennen zu wollen euren Sinn – und doch stehst du vor mir,” Russalka sang to him, soft and sweet and so confused over his affection for a creature that would die so soon.

And he understood the desperation Human felt as he helplessly watched Russalka losing himself. “Lass ab, lass ab,” he breathed, “lass ab von Hass, lass los die Rache, lass geh'n den Schmerz, lass geh'n, verlier das Leid...”

He had thought he had understood during rehearsals. And maybe he had, but it was so poignant now that it made his eyes water again as Human rested in Russalka's arms, fading away together with him.

Russalka hugged him tightly as he had to finish the last lines of their duet alone and then they were engulfed in darkness.

Getting up and backstage happened like in a fog, there was some part of Yuuri already waiting and taking over again as he helped Russalka – Plisetsky – Russalka – Plisetsky – to get rid off the black gauze.

It left him again as he listened to Priest expressing his hope for a better future, a future where humans and spirits could co-exist.

“Es ging und geht, ich weiß es sicher, wenn ich an die beiden denk.”

He felt Russalka's hand in his own.

“Vielleicht nicht jetzt, vielleicht nicht morgen, vielleicht auch nicht in hundert Jahr'n.”

Sister moved past him and smiled at him with Mina Mix' smile as she stepped back out into the light.

“Doch sind die Wunden einst geheilt, ist man bereit sich anzuseh'n, dann so weiß ich, dann ganz sicher.”

They stepped out as well, Human left Yuuri behind again for just a moment, just long enough to watch as Sister and Russalka reconciled and hugged, just long enough for her to take his other hand, just long enough for the final notes of the music to swell and then – with the whistle of a flute – vanish, just as Human and Russalka had vanished as they died, just as Human was vanishing now, making room for Yuuri again.

They bowed.

The audience was silent for a moment and then, at once, erupted, flooding them with applause and cheers that clashed over them, drowning out any other sound.

They bowed again, and again, Yuuri held firmly on to Plisetsky's hand, while Mina Mix grabbed his other.

He let his gaze wander a little, watched as Johannes Erhardt smiled, tears streaking his make-up. His eyes met Yuuri's and he nodded proudly as Yuuri lifted both arms, taking Plisetsky's and Mina's hands up with him and it spread out. With raised arms they bowed again and then – then the curtain fell.

“Great!” Mr. Feltsman bellowed. “Good! Hear that!”

Muffled through the curtain there was still the thunder of applause, rumbling distant like the ocean.

“That for you!” Mr. Feltsman looked around. “Very proud. Go. Get ready. Celebrate. Earned it.”

Yuuri didn't feel like celebrating. All he wanted to do was get to the dressing room, get to Viktor, get to...

Plisetsky followed him and Yuuri didn't comment when he was through the door to his dressing room way before Yuuri, clinging to Viktor while Yuuri closed the door, breathing heavily.

Viktor ran a hand through his hair, holding him tight and whispering into his ear in Russian.

It took Plisetsky a while, a long while filled with heavy breathing and something that sounded like sobbing, face buried against Viktor's shoulder.

Viktor's gaze found Yuuri's and he smiled at him, but for now, Yuuri let them be. It might be just as well. He needed to calm down himself.

With trembling steps he went to his vanity and sat down and with shaking hands he poured some oil on his rag.

He could barely work properly on his face, so weak felt his fingers.

“Thank you,” Plisetsky whispered in his back and in the mirror Yuuri could see him freeing himself from Viktor's arms. “I... I think I should go now.” His voice was raw and thick.

“Do so,” Viktor said with a smile. “Do not keep Otto waiting.”

Plisetsky mumbled something that sounded too happy to be protest and then rushed out of the dressing room.

Yuuri's hands were still shaking with exhaustion as Viktor came to him and hugged him from behind. “Thank you, love. Thank you.”

“It...” Yuuri cleared his throat. “It was good?”

“It was...” Viktor paused, apparently looking for the right words and then settled at “It was miraculous. I have no idea how to properly say it, love, but you do not know how happy you made me today, both you and Yura and everyone else involved.” He swallowed. “How do you feel?”

“Exhausted,” Yuuri answered, “and drained. In a good way - kind of like the time after we slept together. Peaceful and empty and happy that it’s over and that it went well and that…” He breathed out and now gave up trying to remove his makeup. His hands were just too shaky, damnit.

“Turn around, dear,” Viktor said.

Yuuri did as he was told and Viktor reached for the rag and the lotion. With careful, secure movements he began to brush over Yuuri’s face. “This is the best kind of feeling after a performance. Especially after an opening night.”

“Did you ever sing in an opera where you were the first person ever to sing that role?” Yuuri mumbled and closed his eyes.

“No, so far I haven’t.” The rag moved carefully over Yuuri’s eyes. “I suppose it must be exhilarating to be the person who defines that role for the next ten or twenty singers who will try their hands on it.”

“Hm.” It came out more as a purr than anything else. “That, too. And it’s challenging. And quite some pressure. And… and one doesn’t have other, previous performances to draw from or to take pointers. You’re on your own.”

“And you were wonderful.”

Again Yuuri nodded a little and now that the rag was moving over his brow, he opened his eyes again. “And…” He looked Viktor in the eye, “and it was amazing. Both rehearsing for it and then singing it on stage, it was great. I had nothing to measure up against. I was completely on my own and…”

“Free?” Viktor asked.

Yuuri pondered it. “It fits, yes,” he admitted. “Free is the appropriate word. It was great - I...” He swallowed.

Viktor cocked his head. “Yes, dear?” he asked with a smile.

“I wonder if this is what singing is supposed to feel like. So free and so light and…” He sighed. “I think it is.”

“Probably. It feels like that for me most of the time,” Viktor said. “Did it ever for you?”

“Today was the first time,” Yuuri admitted. “Or at least the first time since I was a child and… thank you. For reminding me. Maybe if I had felt like that more often I wouldn’t be asking myself that question.”

Viktor flinched as he said that and then sighed. “You are still asking, then?”

Yuuri nodded. “Am afraid so.”

Viktor smiled and as he finished cleaning Yuuri up he leaned over to kiss him on his lips.  “You should get ready. The gala probably has already started. You should go.”

“Don't wanna,” Yuuri found himself whining, “too excited.”

“You really should go,” Viktor insisted. “You are still a professional singer and performer. Galas are part of the performance. So as long as you are still a professional, act as such and fulfil your duties.”

And as Yuuri sighed, he added, “This may not be the proper way to persuade you to one direction, but well. It is the truth.”

He was still so unsure, so goddamn unsure about everything, about what he should, about what he wanted to do what he _should_ do – the only thing he really knew with any modicum of clarity was that he wanted to be with Viktor, no matter what else life would throw in his way.

And Viktor was still looking at him. Possibly interpreting his silence.

Possibly hoping, possibly fearing, always, always possibly interpreting.

Yuuri made himself smile. It wasn't even hard. There was so much to be happy about, a successful opening night, a beloved opera, Viktor being happy.

“Alright,” he said with that smile on his face. “Alright. I’ll better go and perform my duties then.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I... I started editing. Like, real, actual, big girl, grown-up author-with-aspirations editing. Chapters 1-17 are already roughly edited (name changes, mostly) and bit by bit I am now working my way through them for a proper edit.   
> If you wanna track my progress, ask me questions watch me post side-by-side comparisions of scenes pre and after editing (I'll do some of it for chapter two this week) there's a nice little link here...   
> https://singformeofghostsandlove.tumblr.com/
> 
> Thank you very much.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Mr. Wagner?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is near. Editing is in full swing, my beta is the best and I need more red pens. :'D   
> This chapter will serve as a handy illustration why, I suppose.

Chapter 31  


Waiting for reviews was always an exercise in patience, but this time Yuuri felt it even more keenly than usual, despite the reviews not taking any longe r to be printed than he was used to.

The gala after the opening night had been alright, he and Plisetsky had been the centre of attention, people had been full of praise and even fuller of questions, and for once Yuuri had spent the evening without even one person wondering how he could speak German so well without even having been born in the vicinity of Europe. It had been a nice change and people had kept him occupied enough with their questions that he didn’t worry too much about the upcoming reviews.

It took the newspapers three days, three agonizing days in which every vendor had to deal with an unusually high number of people leafing through a copy of every paper they sold before they put it away again without buying anything.

That was, until they did buy the copies they had and carried them to the Royal Court Theatre to pore over the articles pertaining to the  première of  _Russalka_ designated to an anonymous creator.

Yuuri  usually  didn't waste money on newspapers just for the reviews since there were always enough in circulation  at the theatre, but this time he made an exception. He needed to bring the newspapers down to Viktor and show them to him – and he needed them a second time to cut out the reviews and send the clippings to Celestino.

“... very clearly not the work of Richard Wagner,” Andreas was just reading out loud from one paper, “albeit the influences and allusions are clear, especially when keeping in mind the many years of collaboration Yakov Feltsman, director of Russalka, shares with head director Richard Wagner.”

“Collaboration?” Yuuri asked chucking. “They define Wagner and Feltsman as collaboration? I don't want to know what professional rivalry looks like to them.”

“No idea, I bet they consider you and Plisetsky married,” Andreas grinned. “Morning.”

“Morning, no thank you, there would be complaints.”

“Mostly from me,” Plisetsky said from his usual spot.

“And me,” Yuuri heartily agreed.

Andreas grinned and turned his attention back to the newspaper. “Musically the composition occasionally reminds of Hoffmann with its airy, gentle sweetness that is offset by dark, harsh colouration whenever need be. E.T.A. Hoffmann, of course , is one of the favourite composers of director Yakov Feltsman, so these influences might  have  to  have be en expected.”

“Sounds almost like they suspect the old badger to be our composer,” Andreas commented.

“How likely would it be?”

“Yakov? Never,” Plisetsky declared. “Not his style.”

“Can't see it, either,” Johannes Erhardt said, “he would have told the truth to at least a few of us seniors and then ordered us to remain silent about it.” With a shrug he went through another newspaper. “Oh, Yuuri, here, they are praising your performance as extraordinary and highly unexpected, congratulations.”

“What, they didn't expect me to produce sound?” Yuuri grinned and found himself a spot on the floor.

They pored over the articles for about half an hour before rehearsals started, chorus first, then soloists, still only  _Russalka_ . There should be a new opera waiting in the wings for them, something they could prepare for, something to work on – maybe they would read the note on the black-board tomorrow or the day after – but for now  _Russalka_ was the only t h ing on their minds. The theatre offered a few ballets and stage plays to the audience, but these were not of the singers' concern.

Right now,  _Russalka_ was everything.

Rehearsal went by with Mr. Feltsman correcting a few things he had noticed during  o pening  nig h t \- “Yura – Posture! Proud creature. Gentle, but proud, stand tall, maybe hit even high notes then!”  \-  and then they rushed down to Viktor presenting him with grins, congratulations and enough newspapers  between them  to serve as heating material for two whole days.

Viktor read them with a curious smile on his face, his lips moving to the German words as his fingers ran over the lines.

“Good thing they do not know how much Yakov has composed,” he said at last with a smile.

“They would consider him to be the composer at once.”

“Yakov composes?” Plisetsky asked with disbelief. “Since when?”

“Always. I know he has not done much work since we came here.” Viktor let his eyes wander once more over a review that praised the leads with glowing words as _stunning, impossible to look away from and a true fairy tale come to life._

“Never noticed him doing any work in that direction,” Plisetsky argued. “Never. Nothing. Not at all.”

“Yes, but...” Viktor put the newspapers aside. “Did a lot of work back home. Most of our small plays, you remember these? The small, sung-through numbers.”

“Musical fairy tales,” Plisetsky said, “You mean those?”

“Yes, Yakov wrote most of them, maybe all. I do not know for sure.”

“Oh, I didn't...” Plisetsky shrugged. “Didn't think about that.”

“Honestly, Mr. Feltsman doesn't look like someone concerning himself with composing music,” Yuuri admitted. “Would have never thought that he writes stuff himself.”

“But he does. Or at least has,” Viktor said. “Small pieces, maybe half and hour, easy to sing for children too and entertaining. Most of them fairy tales – has left most of the scores back in Russia when we left, though. But this is by him too.” He started to hum a melody, slow, with a gentle, melancholic rise and fall, almost like a sob.

Plisetsky's eyes widened. “I know that!”

“Hummed it all the time, yes,” Viktor confirmed. “Worked on it with us, too, but he never had it performed for our landlord. Usually had us children sing it so we could learn to portray sadness and loss.”

“Which he started with five-year-olds,” Plisetsky remembered. “The song was pretty effective for it too – how did it go again?”

Viktor smiled and again hummed the melody before starting to sing. “Prosti menya, mladshiy brat! Ya tak pred toboy vinovat. Pyitatsya vernut' nyelzya togo, chto vzyala zyemlya.” He continued to sing, soft and warm and mournful like a lullaby and then his voice lifted and sighed.

Plisetsky had nodded along, but now lifted his head to go on by himself. “Nye plach', nye pechal'sya, starshiy brat! Nye tyi odin vinovat.Doroga u nas odna, iskupim vinu do dna.”

After another verse he and Viktor together sang the last verse Viktor had recited, one where the only word Yuuri recognized was understandable in any language. Mama.

“Milaya mama! Nyezhnaya! Myi tak lyubili tebya. No vse nashi silyi Potrachenyi byili zrya.”

Another verse Viktor sang by himself, then another duet and then Plisetsky sighed. “Been ages since I sang that. Didn’t think I’d still remember the words.”

“Some things are impossible to forget,” Viktor said with a sagely nod.

“It sounds sad,” Yuuri commented, “interesting, because of your vocal differences, but sad.”

“You do remember we are Russian, right?” Viktor asked dryly. “If we excel at anything it is making sadness and melancholy beautiful to listen to.”

“What’s it about?”

“Oh…” Plisetsky scratched his head. “Well, it’s sad, as you said, so… He shrugged. “It’s about two brothers. They lost everyone but each other and blame themselves for it, but reassure each other that the other one is not to blame. They only have each other, so they have to stick together if they want to survive and keep their sanity somewhat intact.”

Yuuri made a face. “Yeah, alright, that sounds very Russian.”

“There is a companion piece to it, too,” Viktor said, “or rather it is a first version. It is not a duet, a solo.” He hummed, the words remaining close to his lips. “And at the end it is revealed that the younger brother died a long time ago.”

“Oh.” Yuuri sighed. “That is bitter.”

“It is Russian,” Viktor sighed. “And Yakov is Jewish. They know even more about pain and sadness and suffering than the average educated Russian might believe himself to.” He hummed it again and the melody haunted Yuuri as he went back up.

It haunted him throughout the next few days, during the continued rehearsals for  _Russalka_ and for the preparations for the next opera that would be staged at the Royal Court Theatre and which would be directed - once more - by Richard Wagner,  _Der Waffenschmied_ , yet another opera by  Albert Lortzing.   
It didn’t matter.  _Russalka_ was his last role here.

The first day of rehearsals revealed that  the baritone role of Count Liebenau was cast with a new singer named Heinrich Braschke, while his valet Georg  went to  Arnold Müntzer  by Mr. Wagners decree.

“You did very, very, very well so far,” He smiled and Müntzer was positively glowing under the praise, “very well, I am to say. You will do very fine.”

He let his gaze wander over their group, still smiling and Yuuri smiled with him.

_Russalka_ was his last role here.

And Mr. Wagner, maybe disappointed by his lack of reaction, maybe relieved to find Yuuri so pliable, went on to give Angela Berger the female lead, since she and  Müntzer had played off each other so well before.

“That’s so not fair,” Andreas grumbled, after that rehearsal. “You should have gotten at least some medium-sized role, if not either of the love interest roles. You’d be a great Gregor.”

Yuuri shrugged. “ Arnold  is a good singer. He’ll do fine.”

“Yeah, maybe, but right now the audience loves you and you should get more roles, I mean…” He shrugged and Yuuri managed a smile.

“Same goes for you, though,” he said. “Count Liebenau is a baritone role, Wagner should have considered you as well. You have more experience than and are good enough for a solo.”

“Maybe.” Andreas shrugged as they went out to grab lunch. “Or maybe not. Who knows.”

“Don't say that.”

“Just did.” They reached a street soup vendor and ordered two large bowls of pea soup with pieces of sausage and potato in it.

“I mean,” Andreas continued as they stood at a high, round table, shovelling spoonfuls of soup into their mouths, “maybe that's just it. Chorus singer. If I’m designed for this, well....”

“You could do more.”

“Or not. Honestly, I don’t care,” Andreas admitted, “it’s great enough in itself that I get to sing at the theatre and that I can get by on my wages, you know. And if I always remain in the chorus… well, I really am starting to think that this would be fine by me too. I mean, someone has to show the youngsters and newcomers their way, I guess, and there have to be people singing the unnamed parts. It is all part of the whole picture, without a chorus most operas wouldn’t work. Remember _Rienzi_? That thing is sometimes more chorus than anything else, so… honestly, it’s fine.”

“Sure?” Yuuri asked.

“No idea, but I want to learn to think of it that way.” Andreas smiled.

“I still would like you to hit it big,” Yuuri admitted.

“Who wouldn't. But hey, one mediocre singer less to hog your spotlight. Now you only need to get through the rest.”

“Well, again, I wouldn't call Arnold mediocre,” Yuuri argued. Otherwise he wouldn't have gotten the role of the Elven king.

“Not saying that either, but you should get some more roles before him,” Andreas replied while cleaning out his bowl.

Maybe. Maybe not. Yuuri didn’t care much.  _Russalka_ was his last role here, his last opera in Dresden, he would soon leave, soon it would be over.

Soon he and Viktor would leave.  


The song was stuck in Yuuri's head and he hummed it all day through right up until the moment he put on his wig and looked into the mirror and was beginning to turn into Human once more.

Half into his role already he went out behind the stage and the song vanished from his mind and  _Russalka_ took its place.  


It was back in the morning of the next day right before the rehearsal for […].

That thing was way too catchy for Yuuri's well-being, he sighed and still couldn't help but hum the melody as he walked through the side entrance.

The refrain was so haunting, sweet and full of longing that it reminded Yuuri of his beloved _Va, Pensiero,_ but where the latter had still a modicum of hope for things to perk up again and life for the enslaved Jews to get better, this song was – not. Very much not, but as Viktor had said – it was Russian. Hopefulness apparently was not a trait  well-known to these people.  
It was still very lovely to hum to oneself.

“Oh, Mr. Katsuki.”

The notes stuck in his throat as he heard that familiar voice in his back. “Oh.” He turned around. “Morning, Mr. Wagner. How are you doing?”

Mr. Wagner smiled at him. “Wonderful, wonderful – what were you humming just now? Sounded quite nice.”

“Just...” Yuuri shrugged. “Stuff. A few bits stuck in my head. No idea where I caught these, but...” He managed a rueful smile. “I should try and remember the _Waffenschmied_ with as much ardour, but well.”

Mr. Wagner decided that it was the right course of action to walk at Yuuri's side. “Well, yes, of course,  _Waffenschmied_ could never hold a candle to  _Russalka_ , especially not to you, I suppose.  T hat opera must mean the world to you.”

“It does,” Yuuri replied truthfully. “Deservedly.”

“Well-deservedly, nobody is arguing with that,” Mr. Wagner agreed, nodding for emphasis. “But this melody wasn't from _Russalka_ either. I have never heard it before.”

“Well, as I said, just something stuck in my head.”

“Which was the beginning of many a great piece,” Mr. Wagner remarked. “Oh please, don’t stop, my boy, please, let me hear it.”

“Oh no, really.” Yuuri again shook his head. “It is really nothing. Nothing of importance.”

They were near the stage now, he realized, where already several other singers were waiting for them , and. ..

Mr. Wagner continued to smile.

Yuuri continued to wish to punch him.

“I think you should let us hear it.”

“What?”

“Yes.” Mr. Wagner’s smile now got an edge that Yuuri most definitely didn’t like. “Yes, please, let us hear it.”

By now they were close enough to the other chorus singers that they were heard.

“Hear what Mina Mix asked curiously.

Yuuri desperately hoped that he looked disinterested enough as he shrugged. “Oh, nothing, just my usual humming and mumbling, nothing you don’t hear anyways everyday.” He smiled. “Guess some children been singing on the street yesterday. You know these tunes, get stuck in your head like nothing.”

“Oh yes.” Mina made a face. “The son of my landlady is currently crowing Little Hans from dusk til dawn, it’s an exercise to not sing that instead of whatever we are currently rehearsing.”

“Same, but at least you know what you are struggling with,” Yuuri sighed and then looked towards Mr. Wagner.

He nodded. “Yes, yes. Children ‘ s tunes. Very persuasive. Easy to sing, too, no wonder you all are drawn to it.”

It didn’t matter, Yuuri continued to tell himself. It didn’t matter what Mr. Wagner had to say. It didn’t matter. Very, very soon he would not be part of Yuuri’s life anymore. Soon Yuuri would be far away, on his way back home to Milan, Viktor at his side and they would leave Richard Wagner  as well as anything he could ever say or do behind.

“They are most definitely a fine way to warm up,” Mina Mix said, “and as long as one doesn’t sing Little Hans I will not even kill anyone while doing so.”

This was met with some laughter.

Warming up was the cue though and they went through their workday without issue.

Yuuri tried to focus on the songs at hand rather than the one in his head and did reasonably well, too; he at least didn’t slip up and switch to that one, that was good.

He missed a few notes , though , and Mr. Wagner’s eyes darted to him whenever he did, so it was no surprise whatsoever, that when the rehearsal was over he waved for Yuuri to come over.

“Mr. Katsuki! A word, dear boy!”

One day Yuuri would rip his tongue out for calling him that. One day. Not today, though, no way he would get blood on that jacket, not to mention the presence of far too many witnesses. So he obediently trotted over to Mr. Wagner and tried his best to keep his tongue-ripping thoughts from showing on his face. “Mr. Wagner, what can I do for you?”

Mr. Wagner's smile was as slick as usual, if a tad forced. “Oh, quite the opposite, my dear boy.”

Too many witnesses, Yuuri had to remind himself.

“I just wanted to make sure that you know…” He made an admittedly rather impressive impression of looking for words.

Yuuri decided that it was best to be patient and wait until he would spit it out.

“If you ever feel a fit of inspiration wash over you, dear boy-”

He must not kill.

“Then please, rest assured that you can always come to me and confide in me. Don’t be shy. I know, I am a harsh judge-”

Harsh was too kind a word.

“And maybe I can be a little too scary, owing to that-”

Again, not the word Yuuri would have used, but who was he to judge?

“But rest assured, dear boy-”

Thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not kill.

“I will always be happy to nurture new talents. If you ever find yourself in need of a critical eye and honest voice, you will always find both in me. One can ever only improve through honest criticism.”

“Thank… thank you?”

Mr. Wagner smiled somewhat kindly. “No need for that, dear boy.” With a nod he walked away.

Yuuri turned around to find Andreas standing behind him, eyebrows raised.

“You saw that too, didn't you?” he asked.

“Sure did.” Andreas nodded. “Interesting.”

“That's one way to put it.” Yuuri shook his head. “Whatever that man is smoking I demand he either stop or give us all a share.”

“I opt for him quitting, that was scary,” Andreas said.

“He was suggesting I am the head behind _Russalka_.” Yuuri shook his head in ongoing disbelief. “I mean... what?”

Andreas giggled. “Yeah, I mean, you sing great and everything, but the day you write your own music is the day I sprout a second pair of ears on my feet – I bet he's now going through everyone here, in hopes to find the perpetrator. Could be funny .”

“If he really does that, please bring snacks for us to enjoy while we watch him going on and about it,” Yuuri giggled.  


Andreas did bring snacks in the form of his mother's homemade cookies and they had plenty of opportunity to enjoy them over the next few days as they watched Mr. Wagner first sift through the soloists singing in  _Russalka_ and then, after  he  f ound no hint to the mysterious composer , mov ed on to the chorus. When his search for his dreaded, hated, unk n own rival turned out fruitless there as well he continued his search in the orchestra, in the bal l et – with gritted teeth, judging by his face – and Yuuri strongly suspected that he was even eyeing the stage hands when nothing and  nobody  would show up to hatch his criteria for the unknown composer of a well-loved piece of theatrical music.

A singer in the chorus named Rebecca Kirschbaum was one of the last people to be approached by Mr. Wagner and even then it was more the other way around with Mr. Wagner being addressed by Rebecca himself, as Yuuri watched with keen interest from the sidelines. The poor girl had a few papers in h er hand that she, with a nervous, shy smile presented Mr. Wagner and apparently was oblivious to the way Mr. Wagner took them, as if they were drenched in excrement.

The next day, Mr. Wagner before rehearsal looked around. “I am sure you have noticed I have spent the last few days asking a few questions here and there,” he then began.

The answer consisted of a low, atonal mumble.

“My word stands. If any of you – anyone – ever finds himself writing something he deems worthwhile, please don't be shy. If you are in want for critique, I am your man.”

Yuuri watched Rebecca's face fall a little at these words.

“But still before you show your works to anyone, I would like to give you some kind advise – look it over yourself and do not be too lenient with yourself. Does your work hold up to the high standards expected from a singer of the Royal Court Theatre? Is it worth the time anyone would have to invest into studying and playing and hearing and singing it?”

Rebecca's shoulders fell even more.

“Especially when you are still very young and inexperienced and not wise to the ways of how life works, please consider your work carefully. Starting off your career with a dissatisfying piece will be a blemish you will never be able to wash out.” He nodded sharply. “And as much as it pains me, some people should stick to just singing the music other, better people wrote, for just a little longer. They should use their time to study them, to learn from them and to realize what is missing in them and what is keeping them from achieving true greatness.”

“He’s on fire today,” Yuuri commented.

Andreas nodded. “Amazing, right?”

After the address Yuuri noticed how Mina and Angela briefly comforted the poor girl before they were shooed off to take their positions.

“That was mean,” Mina said later, “Rebecca worked really hard on this, the least he could have done was giving her his piece of mind in his office.”

“It’s Richard Wagner,” Andreas said. “If you wanna now how nasty he really can be, ask Johannes Erhardt. Or Mr. Feltsman. They can tell you stories.”

“I heard.” Mina sighed.

“Doesn’t help that he likes neither Jews nor women. Like, at all.” Andreas shook his head.

Mina once more nodded. “Not fair. Her music is fine enough, she… she didn’t do anything too complex and it sounds fine. Not great art or anything, never wanted to do that, but… it’s fine.” She shrugged. “And she’ll gladly sing some of it to you if you want to hear it.”

“Probably not right now,” Yuuri said with a glance over to the girl in question. Yuuri didn't know her better than what a few greetings and exchanges of sheet music would provide, but as far as he could tell she didn’t quite look like someone in the mood to present their work to her coworkers. “What did she give him?”

“Some songs, I think,” Mina replied. “she is good with these. Picked some of the more folkish ones too, I bet. Mr. Wagner likes folkish motives.”

“Only if he is the one using them, I’m afraid,” Andreas said. “Was never any different, he only likes something when he is using it.”

"So he doesn't like any other artists at all?” Mina summed up. “What is he doing at a theatre then?”

“I need to correct myself,” Andreas said, “Wagner does like artists. At least as long as they do exactly as he tells them, rather than being, you know, artists and work on how they themselves view their work. If you do that he can even live with you being Jewish. He will still try and make your life a nightmare, but at least he will not call you a lost cause in front of everyone. That's why he liked Plisetsky so much before, you know. The boy adored him, I was just waiting for him to put up a shrine for him. Made him easy to control, I suppose, and in turn guess who was Wagner’s golden boy, honestly, why he asked Yuuri about _Russalka_ before he asked Plisetsky I will never understand.”

They watched as Angela Berger now began to pat Rebecca Kirschbaum on the back while the girl started to make an angry face.

“Well, not so much anymore, I guess,” Mina said, “I mean, I’m not here for that long, but…”

“Was about time. He’s actually kinda bearable now,” Andreas continued, “one would almost be tempted to call him sociable. Don’t you ever dare tell him I called him that.”

Yuuri snickered. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Andreas sighed. “You will tell him?”

“Bet your ass on it.”

“There are ladies present,” Mina commented.

“Pardon,” Yuuri said, “Andreas, bet your backside on it.”  
Andreas cackled and Mina rolled her eyes.

“Well, at the very least he won’t kill me anymore for daring to suggest he is a human being,” Andreas sighed at last. “Who knows, maybe someday he’ll be actually able to find a girl and be socialized furthermore.”

“He’s social enough, if you ask me,” Yuuri shrugged.

“Easy for you to say, he likes you,” Mina commented and then lowered her voice. “I really don’t want to know how he as before if you consider him now to be pleasant company.”

“He’s not mincing his words. Liked that about him even when he was still n ass,” Yuuri shrugged.

“Maybe you should introduce your girl to him,” Andreas suggested, “serve as an inspiration, you know, to get a love life of his own?”

Mina raised an eyebrow. “Yuuri has a girl? Plisetsky has not?”

“Yeah, I bet Plisetsky was fancying one sometime in the past but never got through to her,”

Andreas shrugged.

Yuuri waited for him to suddenly put on an apron, a kerchief on his hair and lean over, just like Mrs. Hauberer when she was in a gossipy mood.

Rather than doing him that favour Andreas continued, “And well, Yuuri is a really mean one, he never talks about her.”

Yuuri tried a nonchalant shrug. “If you have a love life of your own you know about it, if not there’s no point in talking about it and make you jealous.”

“You should bring her sometime,” Mina said at once, “ how did you two meet?”

Yuuri locked at her. Looked at Andreas. Looked back at Mina.

And then decided that it was for the best to shrug as nonchalantly as possible and say, “The way people meet, they see each other and talk and spend time together. That’s it , and now I would like to go, so… bye?” He waved and then hurried to get away from them before Mina could ask even more questions and Andreas could probe him further.

This, he decided, was another thing on the rather short list of things he most definitely would not miss when he would leave – nosy co-workers.  


Another thing he would most definitely not miss was Richard Wagner, but that was kind of a given. 

Mr. Wagner had gone through everyone and anyone without success, before at last landing on Mina Mix with a look of quiet resignation on his face as he approached her.

Yuuri came a little closer, just as Mina said, “Well, I'm happy if I can memorize the lines I am supposed to sing, where should I take the brainpower from to write anything?”

Mr. Wagner listened to her, sighed and then said, “Yes, I suppose you are entirely right, dear girl.”

Mina’s face fell flat. Apparently, despite every bit of reasoning she might possess, she had hoped Mr. Wagner would actually be kind enough to object to her claims. Poor, poor girl, Yuuri found himself thinking.

“Well…” Mina at last offered, “You are very kind to tell everyone in person that we can always come to you with our work. It is much appreciated. I am sure Yuri Plisetsky would be happy to know it as well.”

Mr. Wagner shot her an odd look. “Yuri Plisetsky, dear girl, what makes you think of him of all people?”

Mina shrugged. “Well… I mean, I heard you think a lot of him.”

“Ah.”Mr. Wagner’s expression remained as unreadable as before. “Ah yes, yes, great voice that he has. Very expressive, very wide range, wonderful tenor, and still young, he can go far if he does things right and stops being distracted by every little pleasure life can throw his way. I admit that much.”

“I am sure he would also be happy to show you his own composition if he ever creates some,” Mina continued.

Yuuri had to admire her guts.

Mr. Wagner shook his head and either he didn’t care for Yuuri coming closer or he was actively welcoming it. “No, no, my dear, I don’t think dear Yuri Plisetsky will ever be able to bring one word, one note to paper. Let us not think about him writing even a simple song, let alone one entire opera.”

What?

Yuuri noticed that Andreas had come up at his side and they exchanged confused glance s .

Mr. Wagner apparently was really mad that Plisetsky wasn’t listening to him so much anymore.

Mina Mix in the meantime took a look around, maybe checking whether the young man in question had the bad luck of being in earshot.

He wasn’t. Yuuri congratulated him on that. Also he congratulated Mr. Wagner, just a little, to show at least some modicum of common decency, be it by design or by accident.

“Let’s take your current favourite work for example, _Russalka_ ,” Mr. Wagner continued. “Wonderful work, we can all all agree on that. Very elaborate compositions. And it is so rare to find modern operas that are composed and sung all the way through. What commitment.”

_Rienzi_ , Yuuri remembered, wasn’t sung through either. There were moments of recitation. He was wise enough not to comment on it: the risk of Mr. Wagner thinking of it as an invitation to drone on about his obligations to the theatre and how they kept him from committing himself to the art as much as he would have liked to but how rewarding was the work he was doing was too high and Yuuri would not have put it above him to just wait for an opportunity to hold that speech.

“Wasn’t he the one considering _Russalka_ a nice attempt and adorable debut?” Andreas whispered and Yuuri quickly shushed him. For once he was really curious about Mr. Wagners reasoning behind his words.

“But see, the music is too fine, too delicate, too elegant, the entire work too high-spirited to possibly be written by a Russian.“

_Russalka_ , Yuuri found, was many things and almost all of the things Mr. Wagner was calling it. However, high-spirited most definitely was not one of them.

“The sujet at hand is influenced by Russian folkore, yes. Very lovely story about the water spirits who once were unhappy women. Tragic and beautiful. A combination like that is undeniably Russian, I admit to that.” Mr. Wagner paused, looking around as if he just now realized that he had gotten himself an audience.

“Which might be only natural if we consider the influence Yakov Feltsman undoubtedly had on many of you. But,” he went on, “the way it is realised? The turns it takes? The moments of hope right before the ultimate doom? Such elegance. No, my dear,” he said as if still addressing only Mina, but his voice was raised and he looked around at them all, “I don’t think this could ever possibly be the work of a Russian, even less the work of one being raised by a Jew. As much as I like the boy and as highly as I do think of him, I am afraid there are influences that have in a way ruined him. I did hope for the longest time that this could be corrected, given enough time and effort, but of course that cannot work if he himself does not decide to turn away from the harmful influences in his life.”

Yuuri felt how Mr. Wagner’s eyes fell upon him in a supposedly, but not quite silent accusation.

“But well.” He sighed deeply. “Have a nice day everyone.” With that he turned around and walked off, a collection of eyes following him.

Yuuri turned to Andreas. “Well – he’s an ass.”

Andreas cackled. “Took you long enough to put it into such precise words.”

Yuuri shrugged. “Nah, I came to that conclusion a long time ago, it’s just that I like to give people a few more chances to prove m y initial opinion wrong before I voice it.”

Andreas shook his head. “Wanna hear my opinion about you, dear boy?”

“Only if you never ever ever call me that again,”Yuuri replied.

“Promise.“

“Thanks. So. Shoot.”

Andreas took a deep breath. “Too goddamn good for this damn world. That’s what you are, no other way to put it. Too fucking good for this fucking world.”

“The word fucking was used precisely two times more than I care about,” Yuuri commented, “You know, Mila and Sara have left quite a while ago, I bet they wouldn’t begrudge you if you decided to bestow your affections on a woman that is more present than them.”

Andreas shook his head. “Too fucking good,” he repeated.  


The futility of Mr. Wagner’s search for the mysterious composer of  _Russalka_ did nothing to deter him, if possible it did the entire opposite. He just grew more and more determined, more and more desperate and accordingly more and more mean until one day he decided to drop in on chorus rehearsal, sit down, stare at them and being such an unpleasant presence that finally Mina Mix, after missing a few notes to many, burst into tears and Mr. Feltsman had to send her home for the day.

Mr. Wagner watched and smiled oilily and then deigned to turn around and walk away.

The day went on as usual for them; after rehearsals everyone went about their own business and returned to the theatre for the performance.

Mr. Wagner usually wasn't present for their preparations for the evening , which in itself was bliss beyond measure, but tonight, sadly, it was a bliss denied to them.

As Yuuri and Andreas came back to the theatre he was there, standing opposite to Mr. Feltsman , who looked like he was very close to strangling him. Yuuri could  relate .

“Please, Mr. Feltsman, by now your creation turned out to be quite well-liked,” Mr. Wagner was just saying, “Don't you think it is about time you can risk putting to it or are even you ashamed of this – well – I will call it work...”

“My name is not there for a reason,” Mr. Feltsman said, so calmly and coldly that Yuuri wondered if Mr. Wagner would catch pneumonia from being in so close vicinity to him and then die.

He almost hoped it.

He also wanted to know Mr. Feltsman’s secret to staying so calm rather than following his very obvious urge to commit murder. “My name does not belong there,” he simply said, “ _Russalka_ is not mine.”

“For that it sounds entirely too much like something only someone like you could produce,” Mr. Wagner insisted. “Or well, maybe not you, but only a Jew.”

Mr. Feltsman raised an eyebrow. “What you mean?”

“We really shouldn’t listen to that,” Andreas commented, but Plisetsky shook his head. “No, I wanna hear that,” he declared.

Yuuri nodded. “Also, Mr. Wagner doesn’t mind if we hear what he has to say about the opera we spent so much time and effort on perfecting, I am sure.”

Mr. Wagner turned around to them, noticed Yuuri, then Plisetsky and possibly Andreas as well, then he shrugged and nodded. “Well then,” he continued. “If you want to hear my honest opinion, I of course will gladly state it.”

He would have even if they didn’t want to hear it, Yuuri was sure.

“It is so obviously Jewish that it is a wonder the human characters have no nose prosthetics,” Mr. Wagner declared. “Entirely lacking of an actual, strong, strong-willed hero able to actualize his desires. Instead, what do we get - an affected tragedy without either depth or at least some model of morality people could take inspiration from. But what else would one expect?”

Mr. Feltsman continued to raise his eyebrow. “So you say,” he said.

Yuuri looked around to find that Rebecca Kirschbaum and a few other singers looked at each other uncomfortably. 

“Not to mention the utter lack of originality.” Mr. Wagner raised a finger and looked around. “Competently crafted, I give it that much, but not much more. No innovation, any charm and flair it might have it has only because it drew inspiration from other, more superior works. There is nothing more Jewish than this utter lack of originality.”

It was truly impressive how Mr. Wagner could change his opinion on  _Rus_ _s_ _alka_ from one day to another.

“You say so,” Mr. Feltsman shrugged. “You think so. Then ask other Jews. Is not mine.”

“You will not go on to-”

“Go on what?” Mr. Feltsman asked dryly. “ _Russalka_ not mine. So I not call it mine. Even if was mine, what you would do about it?”

Mr. Wagner took a deep breath. Then another deep breath. And finally, finally, he smiled. “Fine. I suppose you can enjoy your perks for as long as you have them. It won’t last long anyways and when Germany is finally waking up and realizing for how long it has been polluted by your influences - well I suggest you be far away from here by then, so make good use of the successes you are having now.” He tipped his head.

Then turned around.

And left, eyes once again trailing after him.

Rebecca Kirschbaum once more shifted from one leg to another.

Mr. Feltsman apparently noticed it and managed a smile. “Calm, girl. Man talks a lot. Talks a lot of silly words , too.” 

The girl smiled weakly. That was a success.

Mr. Feltsman nodded grimly. “Well then. Got opera to perform. Got costumes to get into. Got voices to warm up.” He clapped into his hands and then waved his arms for them to get moving.

Yuuri found himself at Andreas’ side as they walked towards the dressing rooms. “One has to give it to Wagner, he knows how to be ominous and creepy,” he commented.

“Hrm,” Andreas agreed. “Pretty much.”

“Any idea what he could mean?” Yuuri continued to ask. It was probably nothing good, though. Not good for Mr. Feltsman, not good for Rebecca Kirschbaum, not good for Plisetsky too, probably. Most likely not good for Yuuri as well.

“Eh. There’s unrest again in the city. You probably noticed.”

“Barely,” Yuuri admitted, “I usually try to stay away from that sort of trouble.”

“Pretty smart,” Andreas admitted, “would have advised you to do so as well, it's... well, it was kind of calm for a while, but some of my friends are getting restless again. Let's be grateful that Thomas and Alexander are not in Dresden anymore. Kinda relieving that they at the very least will always heed Mr. Feltsman's order.”

Yuuri nodded.

“And well, you probably noticed that some – alright, quite a few – people think it would be better, even necessary for Germans to free themselves from anything and everything that's too foreign.”

“Define _too foreign_ ,” Yuuri said. 

“Would love to, but opinions are split on that” Andreas sighed. 

They parted ways as Yuuri got into his dressing room while Andreas headed for the communal one. 

Yuuri changed into costume without the usual transformation taking place in his mind. When he came backstage, into the wings he was still fully Yuuri; no hint whatsoever that Human would soon show up and take over. 

“You know, about before,” Andreas said as he reached him; around them there was humming and buzzing as singers started warming up. “I tell you this as a friend and because I really like you and don't want to see you get into trouble. Or hurt. Really, I want you to get through this in one piece, so...” He cleared his throat. “I really hope you already paid some mind on how to get really far away from here really quickly when shit will ultimately go down. And where you want to go.”

“Uh,” Yuuri mumbled, as he saw Mr. Feltsman come closer, probably annoyed by them not preparing for the performance they were to give in just a moment, “well, I know where I'd go and I know how to get there.”

“Good. Hopefully somewhere less unrestful.”

“Yes, I think.”

Andreas nodded. “Good. Very good.”

Mr. Feltsman came closer.

“Just – make sure you take the old badger with you, yes? It will be trouble for you and it will be just as much trouble for him.”

“Bah!” Mr. Feltsman exclaimed as he stood next to him. Last time Yuuri had checked he had still been a few feet away. “Bah!” he repeated, “lot of smoke. Not much else. Not much behind it. Jews not the only ones worrying. And is our schtick to go about life worrying. So is not much behind it, probably.”

“Probably?” Yuuri asked dryly. 

“Probably,“ Mr. Feltsman answered and then shook his head. “Bah. How bad can be?” He shrugged. “Will take long time for this to be bad, really bad. Long time and many other things. But long time. And if ever happens, we be dust and ashes by that for long time. You hear?”

“Yes,” Andreas said.

“Clearly, Mr. Feltsman,” Yuuri added.

“Good.” Mr. Feltsman nodded. “Good, then. Warm up now. Opera to perform. No time for silly worries. Are silly, you hear? _Are silly_.”

Yuuri nodded once more and then at last began to sing himself warm. There was not much else he could do. Only pray that Mr. Feltsman was right and ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach that he very likely wasn't.

 

He wasn't and it didn't come as a surprise to Yuuri.

The post office was a nightmare these days, a nightmare Yuuri returned to daily to check up on the schedules and routes of the postal carriages in an attempt to cobble together a route he and Viktor could use to take off the moment the last note of _Russalka_ was sung.

Even if Mr. Feltsman would turn out to be right, Yuuri still didn't feel like risking it.

At long last h e escaped the fifth circle of hell that was the post office  - today it was even worse than on other days and he struggled and squeezed until he finally, finally, with one jab of his elbow he was out and in the sweet, spring-cool air , and then the immediately regretted it.

“Hey, you!”

He flinched.

“Watch out where you’re going, you…”

He turned around to see a man rubbing his side - apparently one of the people he had jabbed to get through.

“Oh. Sorry-”

“Shut it!” The man stared at him. “What’cha think ya doing here, walking around like ya own da place!”

Which was most definitely not how Yuuri had walked around. “Uh, sorry, I was just trying to get out  of  there”, he said, quickly raising a hand in the vain hope this might placate the man.

It did not.

“What’cha doin’ here anyways, slant eye, lost your rice bag?!”

Yuuri had spent his life exposed to prying eyes, jeers and intrusive questions and had grown somewhat desensitized to it. Being desensitized was a rather valuable skill here in Dresden. He wouldn’t have withstood Richard Wagner for as long as he had.

Still, when nastiness hit him right in the face not even Yuuri could ignore it. He narrowed his eyes. “I'm here for the same reason as you, I suppose, so unless  _you_ lost a bag of rice I can't say I did.”

“You got no re-”

“Yuuri Katsuki.”

Yuuri let out a silent breath of relief as he heard Otto Becker behind him and managed a smile as he turned around. “Hello.”

Otto Becker stood there, tall, broad-shouldered and calm , and looked at both Yuuri and the man in that calm, quiet fashion of his that Yuuri, quite frankly, found unnerving even when he wasn't the one drawing what passed as Otto's ire  upon him .

“Fancy meeting you here,” he said, “On your way to work?”

Yuuri nodded. “Same?”

“Same.” Otto shot yet another glance to the man who now finally seemed to get the hint and with a last, dark look at Yuuri he turned around and finally left.

Yuuri let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks.”

“No need to,” Otto said. “People are getting nastier recently.”

“I noticed.” Yuuri sighed softly. “Just the more reason to get away from here.”

Otto raised an eyebrow. “First time I hear that. You want to leave?”

Yuuri nodded. “I suppose I should tell Yura, he'd be mad otherwise.” He turned, heading his steps towards the theatre.

Otto walked with him. “Might be the smartest move. I suggest you do it quickly.”

As they walked Yuuri looked down the street, bustling with people, filled with noises of people calling, carriages rolling over the cobble stone, the clopping of hooves. The occasional person lifted their head , noticed Yuuri and stared at the foreigne r. He sometimes nodded back to them, embarrassing them so much that they quickly looked back down again.

It was oddly satisfying.

“What do you think? Yura is quite fond of this revolution thing. Would he be safe here?” he finally asked. “Well, as safe as anyone could be during a political uprising.”

For a while Otto walked at his side without saying a word.

Then he answered, “He doesn't like hearing it, but I don't think so. He speaks without an accent and he looks Western. Not at all how people imagine a Russian.”

Viktor didn't look what people here considered  _Russian_ either, Yuuri pondered. Probably when their landlord had picked them out to be raised as his personal, human-shaped songbirds he had paid as much attention to their looks as to their voices. The thought left him sick in the stomach.

“For all intents and purposes he also considers himself German, but his name. It couldn't even pass for Silesian or another Eastern-Prussian province. The moment he introduces himself as _Plisetsky_ he gives himself away. So far it was alright and he could make up for that blemish.”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow.

“Not my words. You remember that one evening when Yura dragged you to one of our dinner rounds?”

“The one where I was asked whether it's possible for Japanese and Germans to have fertile, viable offspring?” Yuuri asked, “How could I forget such a charming episode?”

Otto smiled weakly.

“Joachim said something along the lines that Yura would make a better German than most others if he wasn't a damn Slav. To this Pavol took offence – he's Sorbian, you see – and well, the rest of the evening you can imagine.”

Yuuri chuckled weakly. “Sounds like you had fun.”

“Not really. But thing is, some in our rounds – many of them, I'm afraid – don't even like Slavic people that are born and raised here. As soon as they’d find out he’s Russian - or remember, for that matter - it’s over.” He made a face. “Yura hates it when I bring it up, mostly because he knows I’m right.”

Yuuri chuckled darkly. “Yeah, that sounds very much like him. You think he'll ever grow wise?”

“I don't think so,” Otto said. “He doesn't want to face the truth that in some people's eyes he can't choose his home or even earn his right to choose.”

They reached the theatre, but Yuuri didn't go inside just yet.

“Even if he does by some miracle come to his senses soon, I don't think he would be sensible and leave,” Otto continued.

Yuuri shook his head. “Depends, I think.”

Otto raised an eyebrow. “On what.”

Yuuri took a deep breath. “Alright, silly question coming up. If things go south or blow up or – I don't know. Would  _you_ leave?”

Otto was silent for a while and then admitted, “Never thought about it. Is an answer in itself, I suppose, but – I am fully behind a democratic movement. I am fully behind a revolution, even a violent one, even though I do draw my lines.”

Yuuri nodded.

“But I also know that it is changing and maybe it's turning into something it originally wasn't. I hope it's not, I don't want to have anything to do with that, no, but I can't tell yet which direction it will go.”

Yuuri crossed his arms. “So, Yura will only get his bearings when you do and you would only decide to hit the road when you think being here might be too dangerous for him.”

Otto nodded slowly. “Yes. That sounds about right.”

And Yuuri had thought his and Viktor's plans were complicated.

“Take care,” Otto said, “I don't think you need to be told that, but I don't think it will get less bad from now on.”

Yuuri smiled dryly. “Didn't think so. But thanks for the warning anyways. I'll keep it in mind.”

“Keep your eyes open and your head down, that will help you more.”

 

Yuuri kept his head down and his eyes open and at least only had to witness trouble, not receive it.

“Food!” Andreas declared, after their performance a few days later, “Food, I need food, I'm starving, Mina, you join us, yes?”

“Only if you pay, I'm pretty broke,” Mina said while taking her wig off.

“Deal.”

“Side entrance in fifteen minutes?” Yuuri asked.

“Can do.” Mina stretched. “Urgh, I think I'll do three somersaults the moment I'm out of that corset.”

“Just to lace yourself up again,” Yuuri commented.

Mina shrugged. “I can lace it a bit looser. See you!” She disappeared into her dressing room –  t he one that had once been occupied by Sara.

Yuuri quickly changed out of his costume and took of f his make-up while Vikt o r came out of his hiding place. “Plans with your friends tonight?” he asked, wrapping his arms around Yuuri from behind and Yuuri happily leaned against his chest. “Hm. I won't be here with them much longer, I'd like to be remembered fondly.”

Viktor pressed a kiss into Yuuri's hair. “You have nothing to worry about then, anyone who gets to know you is bound to adore you.”

“Tell that Mr. Wagner.”

“Bah,” Viktor said, “We can ignore that one, I am sure, we have other options.”

Yuuri chuckled. “Have we now?”

“Yakov likes you a very great deal,” Viktor continued. “He says so himself. Talks well about you.”

Yuuri chuckled. “Good. Would be terrible if he didn't.”

Viktor kissed his brow, then his temple. “Are you coming tomorrow?”

“Depends entirely on your efforts after I show up,” Yuuri joked and Viktor laughed at this, deep and throatily.

“And I will show up,” Yuuri promised and smiled.

“Good.” Viktor bent over and kissed him. “Now go and have fun, yes?”

Yuuri smiled, laughed and then got up and left.

Mina and Andreas joined him in the corridor.

“Any idea where we’re going?” Yuuri asked.

Andreas shrugged. “I suppose we can check out what they serve at t he Seidelhof tonight. Mina doesn’t know that one yet, right?”

“No, me and Angela and Rebecca usually go to a small vinery down the street for dinner,” Mina said.

“Oh, you ditched your friends for us, I feel honoured,” Andreas laughed.

Mina’s smile and blush was adorable as was Andreas’ slightly sheepish grin. Yuuri decided that he would leave them to their own devices sometime through the evening. He  _was_ a good friend after all.  If Andreas finally found a woman he could apprechiate without putting her on a pedestal it would do him a world of good.

The air was sweet with late spring, only marginally marred by the additional scent of horses, piss and beer as they went into a side street.

It was still relatively early and the streets were packed with people, some of them probably on their way home from watching them perform. Yuuri sometimes wondered if people from their audience ever walked past them, looked them straight in the face and then moved on without ever recognizing them, since down here, far away from the stage they were just ordinary people, no fancy costumes or elaborate wigs to make them larger than life.

Could people then admire his singing, Plisetsky’s singing, Mr. Feltsman’s work because it wasn’t something they connected with everyday human beings, while at the same time rejecting these very same humans who brought them what they adored so much?

“Yuuri’s moping,” Mina commented, amusement ringing in her voice.

“What…” Yuuri looked up. “No, not at all, I just was…”

Mina laughed. “You know, we could all go and fetch your girl. Would be a fun evening, right?”

“I…” Yuuri shook his head. “She’s on her feet from dusk til dawn, I really don’t want to keep her awake for too long or her mistress…”

“You bastards!”

They turned around and then Yuuri saw something flying, he and Andreas bent over Mina at the same time and then behind them glass shattered.

Mina gasped.

“Are you alright?” Andreas asked and she nodded, probably with a bit more trembling than she was actually experiencing.

“You can’t put us in jail forever, we’ll soon-”

Yuuri recognized the man as the same one he had run in at the post office a few days ago.

“This is a breach of the freedom of the press!”

Yuuri saw police men come closer and turned to Mina and Andreas. “I think we should leave, before things get ugly.”

Mina nodded. “Yes.That was scary.”

“I suppose that was nothing yet,” Andreas said, “but don’t worry, Miss Mix, I will protect you from whatever trouble may arise.” And he added a small bow to his words.

Yuuri gave him a small push to get him moving and thankfully, thankfully, he did so.

As they walked he looked back to see the man being grabbed by policemen and he saw clubs being raised and then he turned around in order to not see what would come next.

The rest of their way they walked in silence and in silence they reached the inn, only talking to place their order.

Mina was in favour of some strong, dark malt beer and three glasses of grain liquor, much to Andreas’ - if silent - delight.

In silence they waited for their drinks and food to arrive and only after they had downed their grain liquor Andreas said, “Well, good thing Plisetsky wasn’t with us. I think he would have rushed over and gotten himself into jail in no time.”

“Yep,” Yuuri sighed.

“Seems like it,” Mina agreed, “he is into this whole democracy and revolution thing then?”

“Very much,” Yuuri said. “Mr. Feltsman is not happy about it.”

Mina nodded and took a sip from her beer the moment it came. “He was like his guardian or something?”

“As far as I know, yes. Plisetsky regards him as such, most of the time.”

Mina nodded into her beer.

“What _do_ Jews think about it anyways?” Yuuri finally asked. “I know Mr. Feltsman is not wild about it. Considers it an undercooked, inconsiderate mess.”

“He's here under the protection of the king,” Andreas said, “so he probably wouldn't like anything that would demote him.”

Their food came, one gigantic bowl of steamed potatoes, another with curd, seasoned with pepper, onions and spring herbs and three plates.

“Dig in,” Andreas said.

Mina, Yuuri noticed, was a lot more like Mila and Sara than he had originally thought. She was comfortable in their company, which probably was a factor, but it was sweet to see her enjoying her food and drink without any consideration to behave like a sweet, innocent shrinking violet.

Mila and Sara had neither.

Maybe women in general didn't when they felt they could get away with it. Yuuri should spend more time around them, it might be interesting.

“Rebecca is pretty into it,” Mina said as she busied herself peeling her third potato. Yuuri suspected she had tied her corset rather loosely because she had planned on eating a ton.

Another thing to like about her. Practicality.

“Hm?” Andreas asked.

“Revolution and such. She says it's good, maybe some of the laws around Jewish life here would loosen up with new powers around and she says several folks in her community think the same, mostly the younger ones.”

“Let's just hope they'll be right,” Andreas said.

Mina chewed and swallowed.

Yuuri noticed that Andreas watched her with a rather keen interest.

Yes, he most definitely would take care to leave in a bit. Maybe when the potatoes were all eaten and he had  had a second beer.

“Her parents are not so keen on it,” Mina continued. “Neither is her rabbi – she invited me over to one of their holidays. It's pretty nice. Lots of food and weepy singing and candelabra lighting.”

“Which holiday was it?” Yuuri asked.

Mina shrugged. “No idea, honestly, had something to do with their history and enslavement and freedom and protection.”

Yuuri dipped his potato in curd.

“Her rabbi is pretty worried. Says that it might be a bad time for them if the monarchy is abolished or changed or something.”

Yuuri thought about Mr. Wagner.

“He's not fond of the king either, though, or of them being here.”

“So he would agree with people who want the Jews gone?” Andreas asked, brow furrowed.

“What I understood he wants a Jewish nation, an own country.” Mina nodded to herself. “Might be the best idea, if you ask me. I mean, I don't mind Jews. Rebecca is my best friend. But if they had their own country to call home that would be the easiest solution for us all, wouldn't it?”

“Where would they find it though, the North Pole?” Yuuri asked.

“Australia maybe,” Mina said.

“No way, there are already people living there,” Andreas said. “Can't build a new country when there are already people.”

“Why not?” Mina challenged, “It worked with America, didn't it?”

“Yes, and look at the trouble they're having with the red skins,” Andreas retorted, “imagine the mess when the Jews would actually settle in a place where civilized people live.” He chewed on a bite of potato and then swallowed. “I mean, their own country would be the best solution for them – for everyone, really, but you know, other countries would have to give up some of their territories, other people might have to leave their homes – don't think that will happen anytime soon, would only lead to even more unrest.”

“More than we already have?” Mina asked dryly.

“You have no idea,” Yuuri sighed. “People can be so, so very nasty to each other.”

“Hm.” Mina took a sip of her beer. “Any ideas what's coming after the _Waffenschmied_? I’d like  to work on getting another solo. Or at least work enough so Mr. Wagner has no reason to overlook me without even one shred of consideration.”

Yuuri shrugged. “No idea. Don't care about it, honestly.”

“You should,” Andreas said, “told you, you deserve big roles.”

“Hm.” He hid his face in his mug.

“What is it?” Andreas asked.

Yuuri hid his face even deeper.

“Mina, have I told you how blasé he was about not getting a solo in the _Waffenschmied_?” Andreas asked her.

“I am not sure, but I do remember.” Mina nodded. “You _were_ far to nonchalant about it.”

Yuuri wondered if he could climb into his beer mug and disappear in there.

Andreas crossed his arms. “So?”

Well, he would have to tell him at some point. Come to think of it, Yuuri realized that he had yet to tell Phichit about his impending absence from Dresden. And he had to write to Johannes. Since he hadn't heard from neither Thomas nor Alexander he was probably freed from any obligation towards them , though.

“Well...” He sighed. “Thing is, I won't be around for that opera, whatever it will be. I won't even be around for the opening night of the _Waffenschmied_.”

“What?” Mina asked.

“What?!” Andreas exclaimed. “ _What_?!”

Yuuri nodded. “Hm. I'll wrap up  _Russalka_ , then I'll grab my things and head back home before some cobble stone flies against my head or someone skins me for the incredible crime of looking the way I do.”

“But...” Andreas shook his head. “But the opera.”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “Andreas, let's be honest, yes.”

Andreas looked at him with very wide, very worried eyes.

“Who is in charge of the next productions right now?” Yuuri asked.

“Mr. Wagner.”

“Right.” Yuuri nodded. “Do you honestly think I stand any chance whatsoever here to get a solo as long as he is around?”

“But...”

“As long as Mr. Wagner is here, my career is stuck in the mud. He doesn't care how well sing. He doesn't care about my voice range. He doesn't care about the hard work I put into everything, not freaking out before a performance included. He. Doesn't. Care.” For emphasis Yuuri tapped his fingers the table with every single word.

Andreas shook his head.

“And he won't go away anytime soon,” Yuuri continued.

Mina sighed.

Andreas nodded.

And Yuuri found it remarkably easy to talk about it to them.

Maybe it was because they hadn't tutored him to the level he was at now. Maybe because they were just as much in  t his situation as he was – minus the aspect  of being foreign . Maybe because they had little to no expectations towards him and his singing. Maybe because they were, ultimately , not  that big  of a part of his life. There was less danger of hurting them with his words. Viktor was so undeniably sad whenever the topic came up that Yuuri by now really preferred not to have that discussion.

“So, you're leaving Dresden,” Mina summed up. “And then?”

“No idea,” Yuuri admitted.

This caused Andreas to exclaim “ _What_ ?!” once more.

Mina pushed the potato bowl in his direction and he immediately took one and began to peel it.

“I'll go back to Milan, that's for sure. And not alone.”

That, at least,  made Andreas smile a little.

“But other than that...” Yuuri shrugged. “I've spent some time recently thinking about what I might want to do if I'd leave the stage and I am still thinking about it, but...” He shrugged. “I don't know.”

Mina cocked her head. “But that just means that you want to continue singing professionally, right?” she asked.

Yuuri hid his face in his beer mug once more. “Maybe. I'm still mulling it over. I think,” he answered, fully aware of how weak he was sounding. “I guess I'll find out when I'm moving forward again.”

Maybe that really was what he needed. Moving. Doing. Not standing still. Not walking on the spot.

“Hm. But… you really wanna leave that quickly? After _Russalka_ is through, right afterwards?” Andreas asked. 

“That’s the plan anyways,” Yuuri said.

“Stay a little longer,” Andreas said. “Stay for the try-out for whatever Wagner has in mind. Participate. Blow his mind.”

“I fail to see the point in this exercise,” Yuuri admitted, “he wouldn’t give me a lead role if I was the last singer on earth.”

“Petitioning hard has worked before,” Andreas argued. “It will work again if you let us.”

“And I still would not be around to perform the role.”

“Which,” Andreas with a grin began to explain, “would be entirely the point.”

Now it was Yuuri’s turn to ask “What?” albeit he did it a lot more flatly than Andreas had done so before. 

“Pull a Mila,” Andreas said.

Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Pull a Mila,” Andreas repeated. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Yuuri finally admitted. 

“You work your ass off. You have some appearances at some parties and banquets and whatnot and be your usual sweet little self,” Andreas grinned, “And get immensely popular with those influential, rich folks. And then they’ll ask Wagner why you didn’t get any leading role in the _Waffenschmied_ and then he’ll be pressured into actually giving you a chance. Which you will seize of course  by being your talented little self and then he’ll have no choice but to give you the role-” He paused and looked at Yuuri in anticipation.

Yuri raised an eyebrow. “And?” he asked , still not sure where Andreas was going with this.

“and then - you’ll turn him down and reveal the news of you leaving and…”

“That would be quite entertaining, yes,” Yuuri had to admit. 

“See?” Andreas grinned.

“Would also be incredibly petty,” Yuuri continued, “I don’t know if I want to be remembered as the Asian who acted like a big diva after his first solo role.”

“But imagine Wagner’s face!” Mina begged who seemed a lot more into that idea than Yuuri was.

“I do. It’s delightful. You imagine it too, it’s really something.” Yuuri shook his head. “But really, no. There’s no need for that. I’ll take care of my personal businesses and then give note of my leave on _Russalka_ ’s last day. That’s it. If I’m so adored and beloved by the audience Mr. Wagner will have to deal with the fall out of that soon enough anyways and after the debacle with Mila and Sara…” He chuckled darkly into his beer. “That’s another mental image I find quite enjoyable.”

“But pulling a Mila is too petty for you.” Andreas sighed and shook his head. “Alright then.”

He had to tell Phichit, Yuuri reminded himself.

Maybe over lunch the day after tomorrow. That date was agreed upon anyways. Better make use of it.

“Imagining his face is not quite the same as seeing it, though,” Mina argued.

Who would have thought this sweet, shy young thing to be such an imp? But then again, Yuuri remembered his friends being equally shocked when they had discovered the stubbornness, the dark sense of humour and the sharp tongue that lurked behind the nervous first impression he gave.

“Well, I’ll tell him where I’m headed when I leave Dresden. Seems just fair. Maybe he’ll feel compelled to tell you when - if - he announces the fact that I left. If he doesn’t by himself ask him until he admits it and then please write me all about the faces he made, yes? Promise?”

“Of course.” Mina grinned. “But only if you pay up for another round of grain liquor.”

Yuuri sighed, nodded and waved for the wench to bring them another round of shots. 

He had the very distinct feeling that he would have to do that a few more times over the next few days before he had spoken to ever yone who deserved to know about his plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See what I mean? There's a lot I like about this chapter, but also a lot that will have to go and also some stuff I'll add in and I'm pretty excited to get there. (right now I'm nose deep in chapter nine and praying I'll be done with it soon because seeing my characters being miserable is... not as much fun as it was the first time around).
> 
> Anyone spotted the reference to another fandom I am part of? Gimme a shout! :D


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things go boom. Proverbally.

Chapter 32

 

“Oh. Wine in the middle of the day,” Phichit said as Yuuri ordered a pitcher of the house wine to go with their fish.

”Uh, yes,” Yuuri said. “I kind of feel like it.”

“Do you now.” Phichit cocked his head. “Do you feel as if you would like it or do you feel as if you would need it?”

Yuuri pondered the question for a moment. “I… I suppose both, but mostly I need it.”

“Hrm.” Phichit pursed his lips in thought. “You don’t have to be on stage tonight, right?”

“No. I would have asked to talk to you over dinner. I think this warrants some wine.”

Phichit raised an eyebrow. “Oh.”

Yuuri swallowed and nodded. “Also I know that their wine is actually drinkable, I tried it before.”

Phichit chuckled. “You need to talk to me about something that’s serious enough to you to warrant alcohol and you wanted to make sure the alcohol is enjoyable, so what’s on your mind? Have you realized your endless affection for me that is driving you to accept my feelings?”  He was speaking with a laughter in his voice, but his eyes were warm and soft and serious that Yuuri’s heart was aching all over again.

“Not exactly,” he said.

The light in Phichit’s eyes flickered a little and then came back a little duller, a little dimmed. “Of course. So? What is it?”

Oh, that man so deserved the best person in the whole world to give him all the love he deserved, but Yuuri very much refused to be that person, in part because he most definitely wasn’t the best person in the whole world, in part - and that was the larger one - because of Viktor, of course.

“Good to hear that things are well,” Phichit said, “You really should bring him along at some point.”

Yuuri sighed inwardly.

The soup came and with it the pitcher of pale golden wine and two glasses. The serving girl poured their drink with a calm, stable hand and a smile that Phichit reciprocated brightly.

“To whatever news you may have,” Phichit said, lifting his glass.

Yuuri did the same. “To the news,” he echoed and after the first sip - crisp and fresh and sharp like autumn air in his nose and smooth on his tongue - he said, “Well, the news that are wine-worthy would be that I will leave Dresden soon.”

Phichit did not choke on his wine, although he swallowed very hastily and put down his glass with a lot more force than necessary.

“Oh,” he said very slowly.

Yuuri nodded. “Yes, it’s very sudden to spring it on you, it’s just…”

Phichit bit his lip. “You had planned it for a while? This is not just a spur of the moment?”

“Yes. No. I mean, it’s been in the back of my head for a while now, but actual plans… well, maybe since before the opening night for _Russalka_.” It was not entirely the truth, but Yuuri decided that Phichit didn’t need to hear all the details. “Well, I mean, I’ve been thinking about it for… well.”

“Mr. Wagner,” Phichit said. “I see.”

“I like Dresden and I love singing at the theatre alongside most of my colleagues, but…”

“I understand.” Phichit took a spoonful of his soup and smiled. “Oh, lemon grass - that slight tang, a little like balm? That’s it. Apparently we ran into customers of mine.” His face quickly grew serious again. “I suppose anyone in your position would do the same, but… well, it…” Now he took a sip wine. “I have grown so used to having you around here whenever I return from any of my business trips and to meet you and catch up with you. And hear you sing.”

Yuuri managed a smile. “I’ll miss you too.”

“Where do you plan to go to anyways?”

Now Yuuri finally managed an honest smile. “Back home. Milan.” Gentler he asked, “Have you ever been there?”

Phichit shook his head. “No, I haven’t yet had the pleasure, but I would love to. I enjoyed my stay in Napoli quite a bit.”

“Yes, but Milan is quite different, a lot more… fine arts heavy. Napoli focusses on its rich history and brags about its Spanish and French characteristics. Florence cares about money, Venice about money, trade and keeping its secrets secret,” Yuuri answered. “Milan is different from these cities. It pains me to say so, but if you have ever been to Siena, you might have a somewhat clear idea of Milan. Just that, of course, we are still the better city between the two of us.”

Phichit chuckled. “Milanese patriotism?”

“As much as I am allowed to possess.”

“It would surely be nice.” Phichit was done with his soup and so was Yuuri a moment later.  
Maybe he should have declared the soup as their main dish; the creamy texture was gentle to the tongue and finely spiced with the spice Phichit called lemon grass. It was a pity they were done with it so quickly, but nonetheless was the baked trout something he looked very much forward to and when it arrived it didn’t disappoint him in the least.

“Well,” Phichit said at last, “I already established connections to Naples and Siena. Next on my list are Rome and Florence, I should put up Milan too.”

Yuuri smiled. “Sounds like a plan. Let me know when you are there. My lover is dying to meet you.”

Phichit nodded “So, he is coming with you?” he asked.

“Yes.” Yuuri smiled down on his trout. “No way he wouldn’t.”

“I was always wondering why you never introduced me to him.” Phichit smiled around a mouthful of spring potatoes with parsley. “Are you afraid I might challenge him to a duel for your hand in marriage?”

Yuuri took a sip of wine. “Well… truth be told, this is something that would be very likely to occur, but I don’t suspect you would be the instigator.”

Phichit laughed.

“No, really, I wouldn’t put it beyond him. He has a flair for the dramatic.”

“His relationship to an opera singer is a very big hint to that.”

Yuuri found himself drinking another sip of wine and then refilling both their glasses. “Dear God. Maybe it’s not that good an idea to bring him to Milan. The poor old city. It might crumble under the pressure of his dramatic personality.”

Phichit laughed, drank some wine and then sighed. “Too bad.”

“What, that Milan will not be long for this world once we arrive there?” Yuuri asked.

“Hm.” Phichit sighed a little more. “To be honest, I was rather selfishly indulging the hoe that you leaving Dresden would spell an end to your current relationship. Which is bad of me, I’m sorry.”

Yuuri wondered if “Don’t be,” would be an appropriate response to this or not and instead decided to hum noncommittally.

Phichit broke the moment with a soft chuckle. “Ah well. I am rather curious for your lover too. He does sound interesting.”

“Interesting is one word to describe him,” Yuuri admitted. “Others include dramatic, very eccentric and…”

Phichit smiled. “Very lucky.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Phichit said, because unlike Yuuri Phichit had a very distinct and clear sense of when these words were appropriate. “It’s good to see you happy again and yes, I would very much like to meet the man.”

Yuuri chuckled. “Just promise that you won’t engage in a duel for my favour with him.”

Phichit sighed in mock disappointment. “Ah well, if you insist.” He sighed.

Yuuri breathed out in relief as he was already wondering how to break the news to Plisetsky.

“Thank you. Otherwise I’d really have to worry for my sanity. And the structural soundness of Milan, as I said.”

Phichit smiled again. “Who knows, maybe I would have been victorious.” Then he took a sip of wine. “Ah well. Maybe in the next life.”

“Hm,” Yuuri sighed, wondering if such a thing like a next life existed for those who didn’t buy into such belief systems, “maybe.”

April ended in a downpour that flushed out the king, his closest family and a good portion of his closest court. On the twenty-seventh, hidden by nightly darkness and sheets of rain they all got into some small carriages and were out of the city and far away before morning broke, God knew where.

Some of the more revolutionary spirits at the theatre spirits were grimly delighted by this blatant display of weakness and irresponsibility, that surely, surely would soon make everyone who so far had been a royalist realize which path was the actual one, the true one, the one that would save them. Surely, surely.

Then of course were those angry at the king for leaving, but only because they saw themselves betrayed.

“Knows what’s up,” Yuuri overheard an oboe player grumbling, “doesn’t want to get his ass skinned and waved around, that’s it. And doesn’t want to see what we really think of him and what we really want for ourselves.”

Some royalists were angry as well and - as hoped - declared Kind Friedrich August to be not exactly the best ruler Saxony could ask for and certainly not a ruler willing to take care of this mess again after he had done so once before. Mostly they were somewhat understanding towards him, which in itself Yuuri found only natural.

Mr. Feltsman was none of these things and belonged to none of these fractions. The most conclusive thing he ever said was, “Bah! King is stupid! Belongs with people. Belongs with trouble. If not want that, should leave and go more than only few miles,” and that was it.

Yuuri himself concluded that he had no opinion on that matter and didn’t need one. At the date of the king’s departure, his last performance of _Russalka_ , his last performance on this stage, in this house, maybe his last performance ever, was only twelve days away. After that, he would take the suitcase containing his very few belongings, hold Viktor’s hand and leave Dresden together with him.

He would take one last look at the city, the domes and towers of the Church of Our Lady and of the Royal Court church, and then turn his back to it and leave. Maybe someday he would come back to visit, just to see how the city was faring. Just to take a walk through the streets with Viktor, talk to him, hear stories about the time he worked and officially lived here and about the shenanigans he, Sara, Johannes Erhardt and his friend Christophe had gotten into, although Yuuri wondered whether he really wanted to know about that last part.

He would show Viktor the inns and the pubs he and his friends had frequented and he would treat him to a nice meal in one of the restaurants he and Phichit had occasionally graced with their presence.

Maybe they could drop by at the theatre as well, just to see Mr. Wagner’s face.

It was a nice way of whiling away the days as he waited for the end to come and it was most definitely far better to mull over the fact that he still hadn’t found an opportunity to tell Plisetsky that soon he would be gone.

And then the ninth of May came and it started remarkably ordinary. Yuuri got dressed in the morning, washed his face and then went down for breakfast, then rehearsal, led by Mr. Feltsman and attended by Mr. Wagner, who sat in his chair and looked up to them. “Wonderful day to end things, isn’t it?” he asked cheerfully.

“Very wonderful,” Mr. Feltsman said, “wonderful day for end and for new beginning.”

Yuuri wanted to know the secret of his calmness very, very badly.

Rehearsal went as usual.

“Mr. Feltsman, don’t you think the chorus could be a bit stronger in the baritone section?”

“Do not,” Mr. Feltsman said, “again!”

They sang again and Mr. Feltsman worked through the program with them without even looking in Mr. Wagner’s general direction.

Rehearsal ended.

Yuuri went back to the boarding house for lunch and to inform Mrs. Hauberer that he would leave.

“Ah.” She nodded, sitting behind her desk. “Next week’s rent is not relevant to you then?  
Yuuri nodded and then shook his head. “No.”

“Hm.” She nodded and then made a note in her book. “Was wondering how long it would take.”

“What?”

“Stayed away over night often enough,” she commented. “Got a girl, eh?”

“Uh, well…” Kind of?

“Well, at least you always paid your rent.. And you never caused trouble. Can’t say that much about many others. And don’t you think I never noticed that you gave your meal tickets away when you were not using them anyways.”

Yuuri shrugged. “I had my food taken care of, so…”

“Good lad,” Mrs. Hauberer said. “You will stay in Dresden? Say hello occasionally, it’s always nice to see familiar faces coming back.”

“Don’t think so, I suppose,”Yuuri answered honesty.

“Ah.” Mrs. Hauberer took a long, sharp look at him and then shrugged. “Too bad.”

Yuuri could see the story unfold in her head. He had found a girl. Often had spent the night with her - or alternatively with one wealthy and lonely sponsor who would also feed him some fine meal on occasion. Now he had gotten his girl pregnant and would leave with her for the countryside to get married and settle down somewhere where raising a family was cheaper than in Dresden, leaving his promising career behind.

He just prayed that she spared him a sermon about all this.

Mrs. Hauberer was merciful. She made one last note in her book, then looked up to him and said, “Well then, good luck. It was nice to have you.”

“Thank you.”

They shook hands and then Yuuri went up to his room.

It would be smartest to pack his suitcase. He could just come back for the night - his last night here, probably - and in the morning, after his last breakfast, he would grab it and leave for the opera house. There he would announce his leave to Mr. Wagner and Mr. Feltsman and then go down to Viktor.

Then it would begin. Then they would leave.

Packing his suitcase was a little more troublesome than Yuuri would have thought. During his time in Dresden he had replaced almost all of the clothes he possessed and gotten himself some more that he now had to get in as well.

Same for the books. He had bought far more books in this city than he would have ever considered possible and most of these books were even in German.

Somehow he managed. The suitcase was full to the brim and protesting the violence Yuuri was subjecting it to as he closed it, but it did its duty and snapped shut.

Good. One worry less tomorrow morning, he just would have to - Yuuri paused. He would just have to unpack it a little to get clean underwear and a fresh shirt and then pack the worn closes back in.

Joy.

But well. He would do it. He had managed packing his suitcase now. He would manage again.

He was stalling, he realized, trying to win time before he had to get back, before he had to get dressed, before he had to get on stage, before everything had to end.

With a sigh he pushed the suitcase to the foot of his bed and then grabbed his jacket. It was time.

It was time.

It was time.

He remained in the door frame.

It was time.

He was supposed to leave now.

One last look around though, through a room he had slept and sometimes practised in and that he held no memories or feelings for that ran any deeper than that.

But still. Leaving spelled the beginning of the end.

But the end had begun a good while ago, when he had uttered these words. No point in wasting time any longer.

With a deep breath Yuuri pulled back his shoulders and pushed himself away from the door frame and into movement.

It was time.

Still, his steps were a little heavier, his feet dragging ever so slightly and his eye wandered around as he took in the cityscape of Dresden, one last time. No, he would walk the route a few times more, to go back to the boarding house and then to fetch his suitcase, but this would be the last time he was headed off to work.

Getting into costume and putting on his make-up was a fog that was only disrupted when he saw Viktor’s reflection on the mirror of his vanity.

“There you are,” he whispered.

“Here I am.” Viktor stepped up to him and remained standing behind him. “How do you feel?”

“Wistful,” Yuuri admitted. “After tonight, that’s it.”

Viktor put a hand on his shoulder, a warm, comforting, heavy weight that Yuuri wanted to wrap his fingers around and carry with him. “It does not have to end,” he said. “It…” He took a deep breath. “It should not end, if you ask me.”

Yuuri closed his fingers around Viktor’s. “Hm. Maybe.” He sighed.

Maybe.

Maybe.

Maybe.

Today was the last day he would get away with maybe. After today he would have to face the fact that he had no idea what he should do, that…

He looked up and saw Viktor smiling tersely.

“Did you like singing _Russalka_?” he asked.

Yuuri nodded. “A lot. Who wouldn’t enjoy it?” His fingers ran over the back of Viktor’s hand and then up to his arm. “ _Russalka_ is wonderful and it deserves to be heard and loved by many people at least as much as I do.”

Viktor’s face remained impassive as he listened, but finally he bent over and kissed Yuuri’s brow. “I am happy to hear that, love. Please get ready now, I am sure Yakov wants to give his speech in a moment.”

Yes, definitely.” Yuri gave him one last smile and then turned his mind to the task of finishing his make-up.

Viktor remained where he was, watching him and smiling with an edge to it.

“Well then,” he said at last, after Yuuri had put on his wig, “you are ready?”

“I am ready, yes.”

Viktor nodded and then let go of his hand. “Then I will see you in a bit.”

Yuuri nodded as well. “Yes. Until then.” He lifted Viktor’s hand to his lips and whispered a kiss on his skin. “Watch me make you proud.”

Viktor smiled. “I already am, love. Very much.”

With a deep sigh and yet another smile Yuuri finally turned around and walked out onto the corridor.

He was running late, he was sure, but nonetheless, he was not alone. Plisetsky was there, leaning against the wall, looking at him with a strangely measured look that was oddly cold through his make-up. “Oi,” he said.

Yuuri smiled. “Ready?”

Plisetsky nodded. “When am I ever not? Come on. Yakov must be dying to give his speech.”

Yuuri nodded and followed him to the backstage area.

Plisetsky looked around and then down at himself. “I like this costume.”

“Me too. It suits you.”

“Well, the role was written for me.” He sighed. “It’s strange, right? You’re always a bit wistful and nostalgic when a production is ending, but this time it’s worse.”

Yuuri nodded. “Hm. You kinda wish it would never end, right?”

Plisetsky shot him yet another well-measured look. “Yes, that sounds about right. At least for me. Sure it applies to you too?”

Yuuri blinked at him. “Well, yes- oh.” He had never found an opportunity to tell Plisetsky. He had wanted to, but then the moment had never been right. The boy had been too happy, Yuuri wouldn’t want to put a damper on his mood. Or he had been upset, Yuuri wouldn’t want to make it worse.

“Would have thought you couldn’t wait to be through with _Russalka,_ ” Plisetsky continued. “I bet you have your things packed already. Leaving tomorrow?”

Oh shit.

“Viktor told you?”

Plisetsky clucked his tongue in a fashion that perfectly encapsulated disgusted disbelief at that idea.

“That’s a no?”

“What else?”

Yuuri swallowed. “You should have heard from us.”

“That would have been nice indeed,” Plisetsky said. “Well, we can’t all have nice things. Andreas told me. Asked me why I didn’t warn him that you would spring that surprise on him. Then he realized I hadn’t known either, went pale and ran.”

“Well,” Yuuri offered weakly, “can’t blame him, can you?”

Plisetsky shot him a dark look.

“We wanted to tell you earlier, really. I mean, I think it would have been better if you’d heard from Viktor, you’re closer to him, so…”

“Stop,” Plisetsky hissed and Yuuri fell silent.

“Don’t you dare act as if we have nothing to do with each other, don’t…” He blinked rapidly and then took a deep breath. “When will you be leaving?” He then asked.

Yuuri swallowed heavily. “Not…” He took a deep breath. “Not right away. I’ll officially resign tomorrow. Then… as soon as possible, but not at the very moment.”

Plisetsky nodded. “So, I suppose I would have heard from you after tonight’s performance.”

“Yes,” Yuuri said quickly, a little too quickly, perhaps. Plisetsky’s doubtful look betrayed it.

“You didn’t tell me until now.”

“Well…” Yuuri sighed. “Didn’t know how, honestly.”

Plisetsky sighed and then turned away.

Yuuri still could see him lifting a handkerchief to his eyes and carefully dabbing them as to not damage the stage make-up.

“We should go,” he then said, tucking the handkerchief away, “Yakov will be waiting for us already.

Yuuri felt compelled to touch his shoulder. “You’re not alone,” he said. “You’re not without friends here, people who watch your back and… and we’ll stay in touch…”

Plisetsky jerked his shoulder away from him. “I said, let’s go!”

Yuuri nodded in resignation. He probably deserved that anyways.

At least Plisetsky didn’t stomp off but remained at his side.

“So,” he asked at last, “not at once?”

“Not at once,” Yuuri repeated. “I think a week or so, but that's the most. We saved some money, but after a while there should be some income.”

Plisetksy nodded. “I suppose.” He sighed. “Otto has said something to that effect.”

“Has he now,” Yuuri mumbled.

“He did, says it might not be safe here anymore.”

As they joined a group of singers had already gathered around Mr. Feltsman.

He looked up as they came closer and raised one rather disapproving eyebrow.

Yuuri shot him an apologetic look accompanied by a smile, but it did very little to soften Mr. Feltsman’s temper.

“Are late!” he bellowed and they mumbled, “Apologies, Mr. Feltsman,” as they shuffled closer.

Mr. Feltsman straightened his back and looked around again. “Months of hard work. Weeks of sweat and tears. Many tears,” he said and they all sighed and nodded. Yes, tears. There had been so, so many tears.

“Am proud of you,” Mr. Fetsman continued, “know that. Always am. Now more than ever. Good singers. Have good future, all of you. Maybe not here. But are all good singers. All good workers. Hard workers. Will find your way wherever you go.”

Yuuri's already slightly blurry eyesight got even worse and he quickly reached into his pocket for a handkerchief to dab his eyes.

“Careful with the make-up,” Plisetsky warned.

Yuuri nodded. “I am.”

“Now go.”

They nodded and then took their positions and waited.

Through the curtain they could hear their audience mumble and rumble as they settled down.

Then silence.

And then the music and the rising curtain.

“Nacht und Schatten, Grün und Blätter, Sonnenlicht und warmer Schein,” the chorus whispered.

Yuuri stepped out and ceased to be and began to watch as Human emerged.

There were familiar faces in the audience, he could see the Free Lady Poellchau, in a box a few ministers of the absent king, in another he spotted Mr. Gottfried Semper; somewhere he knew Phichit would sit and watch and listen to him sing.

So many people. So many people watching him sing his heart out, so many people he was dimly aware of as he sang, as Russalka came out to play a game of riddles with Human, as Human won and Russalka led him home.

There were faces he recognized but none he would have considered friends.

When he and Plisetsky were in the wings he heard the boy mutter, “What are they doing here?”

“Your friends?”

“Hm.” Plisetsky kept his face carefully neutral in order to not ruin his make-up. “You know them too. They...” He shook his head. “They pick the last performance of _Russalka_ of all things.”

“For what?”

He shrugged. “I said something about ideas being transferred in literature and in plays and in music and that they could be used because of this.” And then he smiled. “It's nice that they are here. They always made a bit fun of my work.”

“At least it's something with a despotic king dead at the end,” Yuuri sighed as they watched Mina Mix and Johannes Erhardt conspire. “Let's get to our spots. You're about to be splashed with Holy Water.”

Plisetsky nodded.

And they went to their position and waited for the spotlight to fall on them.

One last time Human defending Russalka from Sister and Priest. One last time them arguing for their friendship and winning.

One last time Human being lured back into the woods.

One last time holding the dagger, one last time struggling against the magical command to kill the one most precious to him.

One last time calling out to the Elven king “Du hast's geschwor'n! Russalka wird sicher sein!”

One last time hearing the Elven king's laugh, “Russalka findet keinen Schaden durch meine eigne Hand – das sagte ich und gab mein Wort, doch darauf nur und sonst nicht mehr!”

One last time struggling and then, begging Russalka for forgiveness, stabbing himself, rather than harming him. “Verzeih mir nur. Ach, bitte verzeih.”

One last time lying in Russalka's arms struggling for breath and hearing Russalka weep. “Lieber, Guter, alles verzeih ich bleibst du nur und gehst nicht fort.”

One last time promising to remain at his beloved's side. “Dann bleib ich. Immer bei dir, nahe bei dir – solang Russalka nur so bleibt, so lang bin ich dir immer nah.”

One last time dying.

One last time hearing Russalka's wail and one last time the Elven King declaring his relief over Human's death. “Nun ist's endlich aus mit ihm, nun ist's, wie es immer war. Nun ist's, wie es immer sollte sein.”

One last time Russalka declaring his revenge. “Nun sind die Bande ganz durchtrennt, die treu mich an dich banden-”

“This!”

“und Gehorsam mir leicht werden ließen.”

“This!”

Yuuri could barely hear it over the orchestra music.

“Vollends sag ich mich los von dir – nun kenn ich nur noch Rache!”

A crashing sound cut through the music, then the calls grew louder and the music died and – Human was entirely gone in a moment and Yuuri looked up to Plisetsky.

“What's happening?”

“I...”

“Down with the king!”

By now the music had died and they could hear the cries rising– angry, bloodthirsty, confused, scared – and mixing with the nervous mumbling behind the curtains.

“Down with that monster that squashed us into the dirt for far too long!” Yuuri could see a man standing on two chairs, raising a hand and...

Gunshots.

Yuuri quickly grabbed Plisetsky and pulled him down.

“Death to the king! Death to the lackeys of oppression! Death to the enemies of liberty!”

More gunshots, screams, Yuuri felt himself scrambling to his feet and backstage, dragging Plisetsky with him and he saw Mina cowering next to a beam, someone screamed, “Get outta here!” someone else, “To arms!” and...

And then he felt something around his wrist and jerked around.

His eyes found Otto Becker's blurry face.

“Don't go outside!” he hissed.

Plisetsky quickly rushed forward, grabbing his free hand. “What the...”

Otto pulled them even further back. “Don't go outside,” he repeated. “Don't go into the atrium. Not onto the gallery. Not into the auditorium, not back on stage, it's hell, it's gonna be hell, they want to see blood and...” He dragged them on. “And I...” Otto stopped and then dragged them away from a corridor and into another one that was a little darker, a little harder for Yuuri's bad eyes to make out.

It was a little quieter in here.

“There, I think...” Otto took a deep breath. “Well.”

“My glasses,” Yuuri mumbled. “They're still backstage.”

“Maybe you can come back later when it has died down,” Otto suggested. “Not now.”

Yuuri could hardly see a thing as they walked.

He could, however, clearly hear people yell and guns being fired. Screams and steps and...

“Oh my!”

And he could hear Mr. Wagner, his voice and his steps. “Yuri, my, where are you going!”

Behind Mr. Wagner Yuuri could hear more steps.

“There!” Someone called, “There's the way to the boxes!”

They were out to kill, Yuuri realized with freezing insides, and mixed with their bloodlust other screams came closer, wailing and crying of women and men.

“What has happened?” he finally managed to squeeze out.

“We're finally doing what's right,” Mr. Wagner declared. “The German people are rising once more and this time there will be no backing down, this time there will be no mercy for all that scum, that filth, none of them!”

Yuuri didn't need his glasses to know the smile on his face, the headshake in his voice. “You should have gone back to where you belonged when you still could. Yuri. I think you will be needed and well greeted over there.”

Yuuri felt Plisetsky's wrist flinch in his hand.

“What is happening?” How could he sound so young?

Mr. Wagner clucked his tongue. “I suppose a good, thorough clean-up of everything that's wrong. Everything we don't need. Everything we don't want.”

Yuuri could feel his eyes on him. “Phichit,” he mumbled, how could he have not thought of him before.

“He'll get out,” Otto said, “I hope.”

He hoped.

“If he does, he better get out and away from where he is not wanted,” Mr. Wagner said. “Germany needs strength. Commitment. Loyalty.”

Yuuri tightened his grip around Plisetsky's wrist.

“It is time to prove your commitment.”

Plisetsky tensed.

And the screams came closer, the noise, the yelling, the shots, the danger.

“Yuuri!”

He flinched.

Steps ran closer.

“Yuuri, Yura, here!”

Yuuri turned around to see a blot of pale and red come closer that eventually took on the blurry shape of Viktor.

“Come now, Mr. Becker, you too, thank you,” he heard him say.

Mr. Wagner's gaze wandered away from Yuuri, that he could still see clearly.

He could also see his eyes widening.

He could hear Viktor gasp.

“You.” The word dropped from Wagner’s lips and fell like a gun shot. “You?”

Viktor was at Yuuri’s side now and he was trembling.

“Back to haunt you,” he still said. “For all the wrongs you-”

Yuuri grabbed his hand. “Bring us down, yes?!” he yelled and Viktor stared at him and the noise came closer and then he nodded and turned. “Come! After me! You two, too! Come, come!”

On his hand Yuuri started to run.

“You should have stayed dead!” Wagner called and then again, “You should have stayed dead!” as he was drowned out by the noise, by the people swarming in, by the yells and calls.

Yuuri noticed that Plisetsky was turning around, looking back to Wagner, but Otto was pulling him away and they ran and ran and ran, their steps hitting the floor, the sound mingling with that.

But they followed the familiar way down, down, down the corridors, to the basement, through the darkness and Viktor always threw a glance over his shoulder, always making sure they were not followed, always checking they were safe until darkness engulfed them.

Yuuri once more grabbed Plisetsky's hand and heard him whisper, “Mind your steps, uneven ground,” to Otto.

Finally they arrived in the cave.

It was obvious Viktor had expected Yuuri's company that evening and only his. A few lamps were lit and in the embers of the fireplace a pan just large enough for two large portions dinner was kept warm.

Viktor looked around and then took one long, thin tallow candle to light up the candlesticks around the cave.

“They said they were planning something big,” Plisetsky mumbled.

“Indeed,” Otto confirmed, pulling him close.

Yuuri was only wearing his rather thin costume, consisting on a shirt, more a shift than anything and then only his silken vest and trousers to accompany it. He was shivering, not necessarily from the cold.

Plisetsky was worse off with only his robe clinging to him. Yuuri could hear his teeth shatter.

“You want my jacket?” Otto asked.

Plisetsky had a fine sense for etiquette and proper behaviour whenever it was required of him, but now he shook his head. “It's alright, I... I can change in a moment...”

“I would recommend that,” Viktor said, coming back to them. “You too, dear.” He gently touched Yuuri's cheek. “Get into something warmer. I will make some tea in the meantime.

And you should wash off the make-up too.”

They stumbled – Plisetsky on clumsy feet, Yuuri with blurred vision – to the sleeping area and Yuuri left it to Plisetsky to pick out something to wear for him and peeled himself out of his costume. He was offered a warm linen shift and a pair of bright blue trousers that felt very much like the ones Viktor was wearing. When he slipped in they were warm and soft and comfortable.

“Thanks. Need help?”

Plisetsky's fingers fumbled and stumbled and he sighed.

Yuuri came up to him. “Hold still, will you.” Quickly he untied the knot of the sash, then pulled the robe over his head.

Plisetsky shivered.

“Get dressed, yes?” Yuuri said and withstood the urge to pat his head. Just because the boy was vulnerable and small and young didn't mean he would not bite his hand if Yuuri treated him like a child.

“I didn't know. I didn't know they...”

He hadn't known? Really? He had never heard anything? He had suspected nothing? Nothing at all?

“Spilled milk,” Yuuri said and led him back to the main area where Viktor had prepared warm water for them and was now busy with the tea while Otto stood around, watching him carefully.

“Spilled milk indeed,” he said, “Let us just be thankful that you are not in the middle of this.”

Otto raised an eyebrow. “You live down here?”

“Yes.”

“And you knew something was afoot?”

Viktor nodded. “I get around the house a lot. I hear a lot.” He smiled thinly. “Thank you for keeping Yura away from all this. I would have hated to worry again how to keep him from being shot.”

“So you knew that something was about to happen?” Plisetsky asked.

Otto nodded. Then shook his head. “There's an uprising planned for tomorrow. They are going to storm the city's armoury and...” He ran a hand through his hair. “I didn't know that they were here. Or that they would...” He shook his head.

Viktor took Yuuri's hand and led him to the chaise lounge, put him down and then draped a blanket over his shoulder. Then one over Plisetsky.

The boy grabbed it and huddled into it.

Yuuri felt a mug being pressed into his hands, then something hot and wet running over his fingers until Viktor took the mug away again and put it against Yuuri’s lips. “Drink, dear.”

Yuuri took a few sips.

“So,” Viktor said, “Otto. Mr. Becker. Mr. Otto Becker. Otto.”

“I am aware you’re talking to me,” Otto Becker said.

“Good.”

Yuuri felt Viktor’s arm around his shoulders. “So, you did not knew about this?”

“Not about this, I knew that they want to storm the armoury, I think they want to go tomorrow, but…” With a rustle of fabric Otto ran a hand over his face. “Well, I suppose they’ll change plans. Or already have, I don’t…”

“You did know something would happen,” Plisetsky said.

Otto nodded.

“And you didn't tell… nobody told me.”

“I asked them not to,” Otto said. “When I realized the bloodshed they were aiming for, I… well, I wanted to keep you out of this. Talked about how young and excitable you are and how easy it might be for you to accidentally say too much to the wrong people.”

“I _don’t_ talk too much to the wrong people,” Plisetsky hissed. “You lied about me.”

Otto raised a hand and then lowered it again. “I didn’t want you to get involved. Keep you safe,” he mumbled weakly.

“I do commend the thought and I appreciate the effort,” Viktor said. “For that sake I will not attempt to beat the living daylight out of you.”

Otto cleared his throat.

“Also, it would be a fight I am doomed to lose,” Viktor conceded.

Yuuri wrapped his fingers around his.

“The fact that you were involved in something you wanted to keep someone else far away from is very concerning,” Viktor continued. “As is the employ of lies to achieve it. Up until now I had a rather favourable opinion on you.”

Otto nodded.

Plisetsky said nothing.

“What would you have done anyways?” Yuuri finally asked.

“Made up an excuse?” Otto said with a helpless shrug in his voice. “Try to get away as soon as possible? Don't know.”

“And risked leaving me as well,” Plisetsky said, voice flat. “Great. Thanks a lot.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Now Yuuri could see - blurredly, but still - Otto taking Plisetsky’s hand and raising it to his lips. “No. Never. I’d never.”

Plisetsky hissed at this remark.

“So you did know something would go down,” Viktor said and put the mug against Yuuri’s lips once more.

Yuuri obediently took a sip.

“Well,” Viktor continued, “why did you not got to the police?”

Otto huffed. “My main concern was always to not see Yuri get shot, be it in the middle of action or by a firing squad.”

“Commendable,” Viktor repeated.

“That aside I would also very much like to not get shot myself,” Otto continued. “Or beheaded. Or beaten to death. And I know how they like dealing with people in prison, even over small offenses and…” He shook his head. “I would like to not die before my God-given time.”

“I _do_ like you,” Viktor said.

Otto huffed.

“I'm serious,” Viktor said. “Even with this mess, Yura could have done a far lot worse.”

Otto huffed once more. “Well, thanks, but if I stay here, I... unless this uprising is successful – not remotely successful, but really successful – I might end up dead anyways if I stay here, because this goddamn place here knows no justice – no real justice,” he amended with a glace around, “no justice for those thinking just a little differently from the norm.”

And now, finally, finally there was one, _the_ laugh, the laugh that felt like it had been collecting under Yuuri’s skin and in his lungs. “Not so stoic,” he giggled, “not so stoic, eh?”

“As I said,” Otto said, “Above all, I would like to see Yura alive and well.”

Plisetsky giggled.

Yuuri looked at him and the way Plisetky rocked back and forth didn't spell well. He felt terribly much like joining him, really.

“Are you alright?”

“I suppose he is in some shock,” Viktor said.

Otto put an arm around Plisetsky’s shoulders.

“Well, the question remains what we will do now,” Viktor said. “The only one who could show his face upstairs is Yuuri.”

“What about you?” Otto asked. “I suppose there is a reason you are down here, but still.”

“I suppose I could try. The city will probably be in chaos. There will be a chance that nobody will pay attention to the fact that I look like a supposedly dead opera singer who was involved in a sodomite scandal a few years back and now haunts the theatre.”

Otto blinked at him. “That was you,” he stated.

“Indeed.”

“I sometimes went to a meeting or two as well,” Yuuri said, “company.”

Otto’s eyes rested on him. “Ah, yes, I remember. I suppose on his-” he nodded to Viktor, “behalf?”

“Well…”

“Yes,” Viktor said.

“Not to mention that it’s not exactly a secret that we’re friends,” Yuuri continued. “And if by any chance this attempt at a revolution is more successful than those before - well, we know how the consensus on foreigners is.”

“They might be not stupid,” Otto said.

Yuuri snorted.

“They stormed my opera and tried to claim it,” Viktor said, “Forgive me for not attributing the most sense to them.”

“Would have understood if it was one of Wagner's,” Plisetsky mumbled, “would have worked a lot better.”

“So it’s not safe for any of us.” Otto looked around. “How long can you sustain all four of us?”

“Not long,” Viktor answered, “Maybe a day.”

“Hm.”

In Yuuri’s head there were still shots ringing, closer with every second and only the fact that nobody was reacting to anything told him that it was only his imagination. It was fine. They were safe, at least for now.

Viktor looked around. “Well. I suppose, I should go up and take a look.”

Yuuri felt his arm slip and reached for his hand.

“I will be back in a moment,” Viktor said, running a finger over his hand.

“And then?” Yuuri asked.

“Then we will see what we will do,” Viktor said and bent over to press a kiss on Yuuri's brow. “While I am gone you get some rest. All of you. Sleep. It will do you good.”

“Sounds about right,” Plisetsky mumbled. “When you sleep you at least don't feel hunger.”

Otto now dared to run a hand through his hair again and mercifully Plisetsky decided to not kill him.

They let themselves fall into the bed, Yuuri huddling under the blanket on the side he usually occupied, while Plisetsky and Otto curled up around each other.

“You lied,” Plisetsky said.

“Yes. I am sorry,” Otto said. “I really am.”

Plisetsky hummed.

Then he mumbled, “Don't you ever do that again.”

“I won't.”

“Good.”

For a while they were silent.

Then Otto said, “So, that was your brother.”

“Is he ever.”

“And Katsuki's lover.”

“Yes,” Yuuri hummed and Plisetsky groaned with something that could almost pass for almost genuine disgust.

“And he is the composer of that opera.”

They both hummed.

“And also Viktor Nikiforov.”

“Hm.”

“Well,” Otto cleared his throat. “Well, I have to admit, I imagined them all very differently. Especially not as the same person.”

“Yeah, he's pretty good at not being what you expect him to be.”

“I suppose he doesn't like me.”

“Oh, he does,” Plisetsky whispered. “He really does. Suppose he'll threaten you with dropping a chandelier on your head if you don't make me happy or something.”

“Oh.”

“Scared?”

“Not really.”

“Good.”

“Hopefully he'll never have neither reason nor access to chandeliers again.”

Yuuri bit back a chuckle.

“I hope so.” Plisetsky turned around to Yuuri now. “Any ideas what to do now?”

“You're asking me about that now?” Yuuri shook his head.

“More fun than to think about what's going on upstairs,” Plisetsky said. “Please, entertain me.”

Yuuri reached out for his hand. “First thing would be to get out of here. Alive, preferably.”

“And then?”

Yuuri didn't answer immediately. Then he shrugged. “Well, I think... I'll need to talk with Viktor as soon as we're out of here.”

Plisetsky gave his hand a squeeze. “Glad to hear that. Where're you headed?”

“Milan. Celestino will hopefully be happy to see me again and can hopefully live with me bringing Viktor along and... well, I bet he has always use for good singers. And good background painters.”

“So,” Otto said.

“Hm. Milan is a nice place. The Scala values hard work.”

“I see.” Otto took a deep breath. “I think about it once we're out of here. For now it might be better if we follow the advice of supposedly-dead Russian singers and sleep.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still have the feeling I should have shot someone.   
> Then again, that's what edits are for. (which is the phrase I muttered through the last few chapters when I made them upload-ready. A lot of these edits however mean either edits in previous chapters as well and I like my continuity - or they would have meant extensive and time-consuming re-writes and there are deadlines and upload schedules to uphold and such stuff is neccessary to keep me going.   
> So... this is all stuff that goes into the editing I've already started.
> 
> Thank you all. Thank you so much.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. My beta reader was on a well-deserved holiday (in St. Petersburg where she worked to continue on her own historical AU "Gore and Glory, which you should go an read asap, it's a thrill).  
> To make up for this I posted another side story, so I hope the wait wasn't too long.
> 
> And anyways - here we are.

Chapter 33

 

Yuuri had fallen into a light, restless slumber and awoke quickly when he heard Viktor's soft, gentle steps.

He carefully sat up and lifted himself out of bed to wander around slowly and carefully.

He found Viktor near a stream, washing his hands.

“There you are.”

Viktor looked up and smiled at him. “Here I am, love.”

The closer Yuuri came the tenser the smile got. “So?” Yuuri asked, “How is it?”

Viktor shrugged softly. “Utter chaos. I cannot say for sure that nobody noticed me, but I also could not say anyone would have cared. Your friend Andreas quickly joined in.”

“Oh.” Yuuri sighed. “I wish I could claim to be surprised.”

“Yes. He is the exception, though. Most of the singers are utterly confused and scared and want to get out, which they cannot. The whole building is surrounded by police and soldiers. So far they have not tried to storm it, but who knows how long.”

“No way out?” Yuuri asked.

“No way out,” Viktor confirmed. “At least not there.”

Yuuri nodded and then sighed.

“I have spotted Wagner and Semper on a balcony,” Viktor continued, “Or rather, Wagner trying to pull Semper back before anyone could recognize him. The struggle took quite a while. I suppose the police got a good look on his face.”

“I might end up in hell for even thinking that, but I wouldn’t have minded if they had just shot him,” Yuuri admitted.

“Then at least we will be in hell together,” Viktor sighed with a smile.

Yuuri reached out for his hand. “Sounds a lot more appealing than it should,” he smiled. “So, he’s in trouble?”

“I suppose so. The whole house is surrounded. I guess the inner city is a mess, too. I heard some talks about barricades. Otto at least did not lie when he said it was something well-planned.” Viktor chuckled grimly. “And I am still grateful for him trying to keep Yura away from it.”

“Tell Yura that. He is still angry.”

“Which is understandable. But at least he’ll now have time to be angry.”

Yuuri nodded. “Upside is – we will have to leave Dresden and might never come back, but the same goes for Wagner.”

“Not if they can hold out,” Viktor said.

Yuuri shook his head. “You don’t think they could, to be honest.”

“No. I have of course no idea how things are in the rest of the city, but this here? Does not look quite organized. Some people thought it befitting to cause a ruckus without incorporating in whatever else they had planned. There appear to be barricades all over the city, some designed by Semper. He bragged about it.  I managed to get a look outside our attic window. None of them are around the theatre. I suppose the only thing keeping the police from storming in is worry if some innocents are still in here, but they will storm in soon. So no, I do not think Wagner will be able to avoid a severe punishment unless he runs.”

Yuuri raised his and curved it as if holding a wine glass. “Here’s to him not making it. May he never have a chance to ever be the pest he was here again.”

“To that I drink,” Viktor said, but then added, “at least I will once we have the opportunity. We will leave as soon as Yura and Otto are awake. There’s a way along the stream. I have followed it before, when I was still in the chorus here. It goes to the other side of the river, still in the city. The area where we would get out consists mostly of villas of the nobility, very idle folk.”

“Would be quite away from the inner city then,” Yuuri mused.

“Exactly my point.” Viktor reached into his pocket and handed Yuuri his glasses. “I managed to get into your dressing room.”

“Oh… oh thank you.” Yuuri pressed a kiss on his hand and then put the glasses on. Oh, what bliss to finally see properly again. “That’s much better.” He leaned over to Viktor for a short kiss.

Viktor wrapped his arms around him and pressed him tightly against his body. “Those gun shots are the worst thing I have ever heard. Until I found you, all I could think of was the possibility of you being shot, maybe dead or dying…”

“I’m alive,” Yuuri whispered, wrapping his arms around Viktor’s waist, “I’m here and I’m alive and nothing will change that for the next few decades.”

“Thank God for miracles,” Viktor sighed.

And then he heard the gunshots.

And the steps echoing from far, far away all the way down to them.

Viktor swallowed. “We need to wake them,” he said and then rushed over and... and was gone and away and real and himself.

Yuuri followed him quickly and went to the bed. “Hey.” He grabbed Plisetsky's shoulder and started to shake him. “Hey. We need to go.”

Plisetsky grumbled.

“Come on, wake up!”

Otto listened to him before Plisetsky did, his eyes snapping up. “What’s the matter?” he asked, disturbingly clear.

“Let us get away then,” Viktor said and led them through the cave and then into the stream.

The cold water hit Yuuri like needles shooting up his legs.

“Urgh,” Plisetsky muttered. “Urgh!”

“Awake?” Otto asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. About time.” Viktor sighed and lit a lamp that would hopefully be enough to illuminate the way.

Yuuri took his hand. “Lead the way, love.”

They waded through water that at times came up to their calves, trying not to slip and fall as they moved along and along.

Viktor turned around, looking back somewhat wistfully. “Who would have thought I would leave this place like this. When I started thinking about it I imagined it quite differently.”

“I know, dear,” Yuuri mumbled and rand his thumb over the back of Viktor’s hand, “I know.”

“And if we don’t hurry,” Plisetsky chattered, forcing his teeth to not click together as manically as possible, “we won’t leave this place at all, so move!”

Viktor’s fingers closed tighter around Yuuri’s as they walked on and on.

Whenever Yuuri turned around to see if Otto and Plisetsky were still behind him – maybe the chattering teeth were his own? Maybe the only slashing steps were his and Viktor’s? – he could see that they did the very same.

In the darkness that encircled them outside their little bubble of dark yellow lamp light they had to mostly rely on listening to the splashes Viktor made and on their noses.

After a good while the air – cool and moist and clear so far – turned muddy when they walked underneath the river Elbe and then, immediately afterwards, they were hit by the stench of Dresden canalisation and cess pits. The air got warmer as well, too, but Yuuri didn't find it in him to enjoy it.

“If we're not careful we'll be caught by the police and all this escape stuff has been for nothing,” Plisetsky grumbled.

“You suppose we should go up then?” Viktor asked.

“Not yet, but soon, when we're in the better off quarters, the ones with the villas and such,” Plisetsky said.

“You know your way around there, do you not?” Viktor asked.

“Yes, I'd prefer to wander around on known territory.”

“Still a long way to go then?”

“Yes.”

The stench got even worse.

“Are we there yet?” Yuuri found himself asking.

Plisetsky paused for a moment and then sighed. “No.”

Then they splashed on.

“I feel like we’re walking right along the sewers,” Yuuri mumbled.

“It’s not that bad,” Otto said, “The sewers run along nearby way, but as far as I can tell, we’re not crossing paths with it.”

“You have read some maps, I gather?” Viktor asked.

“Last time I had the job to get people out and to safe hiding spots,” Otto answered, “I tried to memorize as much as possible.”

“Yura, I like him indeed!” Viktor called back. “A very sensible fellow, even when he is involved in political uprisings.”

Plisetsky chortled, much to Viktor’s delight.

Otto said nothing.

“I think, we... yes. There.” Viktor nodded ahead. “A few more steps, then this path will open up into the sewers.”

“Who would have thought,” Yuuri muttered.

The stench caused him to gag and then gag again.

“Try breathing through your mouth,” Otto advised.

“Then I taste it.”

“If you don't shut up I'll have you taste my fist!” Plisetsky hissed.

“It will be over soon, love,” Viktor comforted him and now it was Plisetsky who had to gag.

That was a comfort.

“Here we are.” Viktor led them around a sharp curve.

The change was immediate.

Yuuri still wanted to gag from the stench but where before they had waded through the chilly, cold water over slippery wet stones they now gradually came out to the dry and then – then they hit pavement. Actual pavement.

“The sewers are connected to the stream, but don't feed into it?” Yuuri asked bemusedly.

“Yes, they once did, but this stream is a source for drinking water,” Otto said, “so that wouldn't do. Not to mention the awful, awful stench that crept up the theatre and several of these fine houses over there. So they very quickly changed it back. Any other stream that doesn't cross rich areas didn't fare so well.”

Apparently he had studied not only the maps of the sewers but their history as well.

“Careful, please,” Viktor said, “the sideway is rather small.”

They pressed themselves against the wall as they crouched along, stumbling, occasionally they had to stop because one of them had to gag.

Yuuri didn’t throw up - he had nothing he could throw up, that helped, but he wasn’t sure whether the same was true for Plisetsky, there was no way he could have smelled out vomit over the stench of the sewers.

And then, finally, finally. Finally.

Viktor, firmly holding Yuuri’s hand and with the other arm holding up the dim, flickering lamp nodded ahead. “We will be out in a bit. If I remember correctly, we will end up right next to a very lovely cesspit.”

“Can’t be much worse,” Yuuri sighed in resignation.

At the very least he could see now a small sliver of greying sky.

“Alright.” Viktor reached up and touched around. “We are here. They use the stream to flush away their muck. We will quite probably smell awful in a moment.”

“Urgh,” Plisetsky muttered. “We’ll smell five streets away.”

“At least the air we breathe will be clean,” Otto sighed. “That's something.”

Viktor muttered something in front of them, then he pushed and blocked their sights.

“If he gets stuck I'll gonna laugh. And then get mad and then laugh some more.”

“You will not,” Viktor said. Then he slid through the gap and the grey of a dying night appeared again. “Who is next?”

“Yuuri, then Yura,” Otto said. “I'm the broadest, if I get stuck I won't block your way.”

“It is rather tight, but I do not think you will get stuck,” Viktor said, “I suppose we are rather similar around the shoulders.”

“I would be quite surprised,” Otto answered honestly, “Yuuri, go up.”

Yuuri went to the rising slope, touched and tried and felt with his feet if he could find a hold.

Then he pushed and gripped and slipped a little. The walls by themselves were structured enough, stone and something that felt like old, old brick sticking out through the clay, but they were covered in something slimy and sticky and the stench, the eye-watering stench – Yuuri let go and slid back. “Urgh.”

“I told you people use this to flush out their cesspits,” Viktor said.

“It's disgusting!”

“I know, I am sorry.”

Yuuri swallowed – swallowed the stench – and, gagging again, he looked for something to hold on to again.

“It is not far, love,” Viktor called from above. “Just a little, just a little...”

Yuuri pushed himself up, against the wall, then reached.

“Careful now,” Viktor warned the moment he hit his head.

“Ow.”

“Is is bad?”

Yuuri blinked through the sharp, throbbing pain that at least dulled his sense of smell a little. “Not much. I'm coming up.” He pushed again and then some more and then, then, finally he reached up and Viktor grabbed his hand.

Yuuri felt him flinch at the muck covering Yuuri's skin.

“We all ~~do~~ desperately need a bath and we need it soon,” he declared as he helped Yuuri through the opening.

“Agreed,” Yuuri mumbled and stepped out to land his foot in some more excrement. He looked down on it, then to Viktor. “Fitting, huh? Getting through shit, being in shit, being covered in shit, but it could be a lot worse, huh?”

Viktor smiled at him. “It could be, yes.”

“And we'll get out of this shit. Maybe get into some more, but we'll always get out.”

Viktor gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “At least we have the chance to. And I will very much kiss you once we are all cleaned up and smell less disgusting.”

“Gladly.”

Viktor now let go of him and bent down. “Yura, you are next.”

The boy hissed and cursed and cussed while he pushed himself up and through and into Viktor's waiting hands.

When he was up Yuuri had to pick some dark lumps out of his hair about which he really didn't want to think too much.

Then the boy looked around while Viktor bent back down again to direct Otto's broader frame through the small space.

“Twist a little to the left – good.”

They heard muffled grumbling from below.

“Oh. The church there.” Plisetsky nodded to a high, slender tower. “That's the Martin Luther Church. I know where we are.”

“Thank goodness,” Yuuri admitted. “I don't.”

“We've been here on occasion. Private parties and such. I bet you've been without me too, to accompany Chula.”

Yuuri shrugged. “Doesn't mean I recognise the place by its back-alleys and cesspits in the dark. But where are we?”

“[...].”

Yuuri could see Plisetsky bite his lip. As Otto pushed through he rushed to his side, helping him out and up.

“Last time, I swear, last time I pull stuff like this,” he mumbled.

“I am very glad to hear that, for sure,” Viktor said. “Not partaking in revolutionary activities with very unlikely chances of success is rather beneficial for your health I hear.”

“I wonder what people are supposed to do then to move forward,” Otto hissed back. “Twiddle thumbs?”

Plisetsky pulled him close to his side. “First they'll get somewhere safe and then cleaned up,” he declared. “And they will do so in silence unless they want some street watching police officer to catch them, rendering this whole escape thing pointless. Now let's go, before I really need to vomit here.”

They let him take the lead and he walked through the streets with the security of a man who spent a lot of his leisure time wandering these streets, but his shoulders were tense, as if he was approaching an much despised workplace.

He had a clear goal in mind, only stopping when he felt they had to duck behind a corner, despite Yuuri never hearing any steps aside of their own.

At last he headed straight for a villa, backed  by a large garden that lay in soft, sleeping darkness.

Plisetsky didn’t break his stride as he went up to the door and knocked and - after he had waited for a few seconds without anything happening - grabbed the handle of the doorbell and vigorously rang it.

Yuuri spotted a souterrain window light up.

Plisetsky rang again.

Steps. More windows lightened up.

Undeterred, Plisetsky rang the bell once more.

“I think they have heard you by now,” Otto said gently.

“Can’t hurt,” Plisetsky answered and rang the bell again.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Yuuri muttered.

“Occasionally I do,“ Plisetsky answered curtly.

“Occasionally,” Viktor sighed. “Although I am not sure how walking up to a stranger’s house in the middle of the night and ringing the bell like we have hell on our heels would be proof of that.”

“I would agree with that if it was a stranger’s house,” Plisetsky said and rang again, just for good measure.

The door cracked open and they found themselves face to face with a portly man of middle age in a nightgown and and a dressing robe, holding a candle in his hand. “For God’s sake - oh dear!”

It dawned on Yuuri that not only were they four men showing up in the middle of the night ringing up a storm, three of them were wearing very obvious former stage costumes and all of them were partially covered in shit and smelled accordingly.

“Mr. Ilroi is at home, I know it,” Plisetsky said at once. “Wake him up and tell him he has guests.”

“What… who on earth are you!” The man glared at them, trying his hardest to be intimidating despite his very obvious urge to gag. Yuuri had to commend his self-control in the face of them, dirty and stinking as they were.

“Yuri Plisetsky, Mr. Matthäus, I'm sure you know me well enough, considering you always complain to other servants about my uncivilised, Russian tongue and my terrible lack of respect for my betters. Now if you would wake your master? I do hope he made it out of that chaos without trouble.”

By now several other servants – two maids, Yuuri supposed and someone who probably was the cook, along with two men – had shown up and stared at them in a mix of curiosity and worry.

“Mr. Matthäus, shall we call the police?” one of the girls asked timidly.

“Not sure if they would come,” Otto commented, “they are probably too busy with the inner city.”

The man – Mr. Matthäus – cleared his throat.

“Now, is he at home or is he?!” Plisetsky demanded once more.

“He is,” one of the younger men said, “What do you want from him?” He looked ready to break a few noses. Yuuri hoped that theirs would not be among them.

“Paying visit, obviously,” Plisetsky snarked. “Look, man, we were in the middle of a performance, we were accosted and attacked on stage, had to flee through some secret passages and then through a cesspit, so, really, we would like to see Jean-Jaques.”

“'ou cal- oh God!” The master of the house stood on top of the stairs, looking down to them with wide eyes. “Yuri, are you alright, you look...”

Funny how all of a sudden he had lost every bit of that silly accent, Yuuri noticed.

“Let them in, yes, at once – Mr. Katsuki, good to see you made it out of this madhouse too.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri mumbled as they shuffled in.

Ilroi came down to them and looked them up and down. “Bath. All of you.”

“Uh,” Otto mumbled, “Mr.-”

“Bath first, introductions later, I cannot possibly talk if I'm busy gagging and vomiting in front of you, which is is just as impolite on my part as causing me to do so. Mr. Matthäus, you and Inga prepare some warm water for my guests. Washing and then enough to at least sink into for a bit,” he ordered. “And soap for the hair and some oils and vinegar and... best you do it in the laundry room, take the washing tubs, the big ones. You have eaten? I'll see that something is prepared for you. And clean clothes, clean clothes are important of course...”

He was muttering to himself, rather than his staff, but they took the commands anyways and started bustling around ushering them down a stairway, without coming too close to them.

They let them. They followed them.

They were safe.

 

Two hours later they were also washed, dressed in clean shirts and dressing gowns, all made of rich, line silk, quilted and embroidered with the Fleurs-de-Lis, seated opposite to their host and a milky pale, dark-haired young woman at his side as they looked at them with a mixture of genuine curiosity and a barely suppressed yawn.

Ilroi had once mentioned that Yuuri would like his mistress and Yuuri now saw why he would think that, although whether Ilroi was right remained to be seen.

The woman was part Asian, with a tall, long-limbed frame rather than petite and delicate, and with dark, doll-round eyes. Even at this hour she had taken the time to put some red on her lips, accentuating both her transparent skin and her black hair and eyes.

She was indeed quite beautiful.

“So,” Mr. Ilroi finally asked, looking at Viktor and then at Otto, “‘at ‘ere your namez ag’ain?”

Yuuri decidedly liked him better when he wasn’t affecting that terrible accent

“Otto Becker,” Otto said.

“Ah,” Ilroi said, entirely unimpressed.

“He designed the stage and the background paintings for _Russalka_ ,” Plisetsky said. “And is a very close friend of mine.”

Ilroi nodded slowly, but apparently those new references still failed to make an impression. “A',” he made, speaking through his nose, “I see. 'really a glosé friend, eh?”

“Yes,” Otto said calmly. “Very close.”

“'and 'ou?” Ilroi now asked Viktor.

Viktor was not put off the least. In fact, Yuuri suspected that he really enjoyed puffing out his chest and stating his name, “Viktor Nikiforov. Charmed, I am sure.”

Both Ilroi and his mistress blinked and finally the latter choked out, “The supposedly long dead Opera singer.”

“The very same, dear Miss Isabeau,” Viktor smiled.

“You are supposed to be dead,” Miss Isabeau repeated.

“I have never been fond of doing exactly what people expect me to do,” Viktor said.

“Long story, Miss Chang,” Plisetsky said. “Important is that we escaped the theatre, are glad that you did the same and that the four of us are in agreement that we should not show up again in the inner city. Or hang around in Dresden.”

For a while they all were silent and it was Miss Isabeau Chang who at last remarked, “We would have suspected you to be in the middle of it.”

Plisetsky bit his lip.

“You never made a secret of your sympathies,” she continued.

“He also never wished for anyone's death because of their origins,” Otto remarked, “neither do I.”

“So.” Ilroi raised an eyebrow. “Very nice to hear,” he then continued without even a hint of the accent. “I just wonder why I should believe that. Don't mind me, Yuri, I want to believe that.”

Otto pointed at Plisetsky. “Russian.” Viktor. “Russian.” Yuuri. “Japanese? Italian? What did you say again?”

“Both and nothing,” Yuuri answered. “Not German, anyways. Not even looking the part.”

Otto nodded and pointed to himself. “Depending on who you ask, a man with Wendish parents doesn't count as German either, despite my people having lived longer here.”

Ilroi raised an eyebrow. “So.”

Plisetsky sighed. “Honestly, if I wanted to kill you, I would not go though literal shit to do it.”

“So you say – Mr. Katsuki, why are you so silent? And you, Mr. … Nikiforov was it, right?”

“Exactly,” Viktor nodded. “Well, I am considered dead in Dresden. Showing my face around here might not be the wisest idea.”

Ilroi nodded.

“Especially since I am the composer these people so kindly interrupted in an attempt to claim it for whatever they were trying to achieve. If they fail I will not be gladly suffered by the authorities.”

“Nikiforov,” Ilroi mumbled, “Nikiforov.” He tapped his chin. “Ah, now I remember! That mess with Free Lord Rochow! You died a few weeks later.”

“I know.”

“Sure that would be a problem? It's been a while.”

Viktor shrugged. “I trust the Saxonian police to be exactly then of impeccable memory when it would be of the utmost inconvenience to me. And again – composer of an opera that now can be claimed to heat up the masses into a revolutionairy frenzy. I am not sure that would go over well with them.”

“You wouldn't have to say it,” Miss Isabeau Chang remarked.

Viktor made a short, offended noise.

“And in case these... democrats or whatever they call themselves succeed, then you would have nothing to worry about,” Ilroi pointed out.

“The king is far away and safe,” Viktor said. “A very smart man, I have to admit. He will live to see how this plays out, he will react accordingly and if he feels generous will not have every single person involved in this executed. Trust me, Mr. Ilroi, they will not succeed.”

“Which is why I would have to leave,” Otto commented. “My political ideas were just as little a secret as Yuri's.”

Ilroi sighed deeply and nodded. “Ah, ah. And you?” His eyes wandered to Yuuri now.

Yuuri shrugged. “I was the lead in said opera, I'm friends with someone who was always quite keen to get himself involved, I'm not German, I better hit the ground running and I would very much prefer if Viktor wouldn't leave without me.”

Ilroi blinked.

Then his gaze wandered between Yuuri and Viktor as something like understanding dawned on his face. “Well.” He cleared his throat. “Ah. I see.”

Isabeau Chang's face remained as pretty and immovable as a porcelain doll's. “Now _that_ would be a scandal for the ages,” she remarked.

“Indeed.” Ilroi looked at her. “What do you say, my heart?”

“I say that it's your house. Your decision.”

“And you share my bed, my hearth and my table with me.”

Yuuri and Plisetsky shot each other a look. Plisetsky looked like he was about to vomit and Yuuri quite frankly, could share into the sentiment. He was not entirely sure whether this was worse than the cesspit, but if it wasn't it was very close to it.

“Well, in that case I say, let us do a good deed,” Isabeau Chang said at last. “I would advise you against showing your face too much or talk to the staff. They will gossip anyways, but do not fan the flames.”

So they had a roof over their heads for now?

They all exchanged insecure glances. Really? They were safe? They could stay here?

“Well, have you heard me?” Miss Isabeau Chang asked, rather snappily so.

They all flinched and hurried to answer her with a nod until she nodded back. “Good.“

Ilroi had watched her acting as mistress of the house with evident, indulgent pride. “Well then. We always have rooms prepared, Mr. Matthäus!”

The man in question had stood next to the door, awaiting orders.

Now he bowed. “Shall I lead our guests upstairs?”

“Of course. I hope, though, you don't mind that they are not aired and heated?”

Yuuri felt himself shrug.

Plisetsky mumbled, “Can live with that.”

“Good.” Ilroi clapped his hands. “Then off you go. Get some sleep. I think we should all do the same. Mr. Matthäus, you too and tell the staff to do the same. Life will begin at noon tomorrow for us.”

Mr. Matthäus bowed again, face unmoving and then he turned and waived for them to follow him.

They did so, obediently like a group of lambs.

 

The four guest rooms were dark and cool, but the beds were soft and safe.

Some short time after Mr. Matthäus had left them Yuuri's door had opened and Viktor had slipped in and under the blankets, wrapping his arms around Yuuri and pressing himself close to him and Yuuri had woven his fingers into his hair.

They had nodded off then for a while and awoke sometime after noon, maybe a bit later to clean clothes laid out for them and plates of sandwiches with cheese, cold roast chicken and ham, ate and then sat around, not daring to go outside.

At last the door opened and Plisetsky and Otto came in. “Ah. There you are.”

Viktor smiled brightly at him. “Here we are, Yura. So are you. What gives?”

“Clothes,” Plisetsky said and handed them a pile of fabric, “It’s all Jean-Jaques’ stuff so it might not fit properly,” Plisetsky warned.

“It”s better than walking around naked, I suppose,” Yuuri sighed and shook off the nightshirt, grabbed some breeches and a shirt and shrugged them on.

“I would like to argue with that point,” Viktor said, “I think everythingi is worse than your naked form.”

“In the middle of the street?” Yuuri argued, raising an eyebrow.

Viktor made a face. “Alright. In the privacy of a secluded-”

“Get dressed!” Plisetsky snapped, “For the love of everything get dressed!”

Viktor followed the order and ran a hand over the shirt. “My point still stands.”

“Good for you and your point,” Plisetsky grumbled and then sighed, “I hope Yakov got out alright.”

“At least nobody can suspect him of being in favour of anything revolutionary,” Otto tried to comfort him. “He was always quite vocal about his opinion.”

“Yes, but…” Plisetsky rubbed his temple. “He’s a Jew. Not all of the democrats like Jews. Republicans are the same and.... and if he gets out the police might still shoot him because who cares if another Jew bites the dust?”

“That will not happen,” Viktor declared.

“Sure about that?”

“Yes.” Just that Viktor didn’t sound sure at all.

“Why?” Plisetsky asked.

Yuuri swallowed as he buttoned up the shirt. “What brings you here?” he asked.

Plisetsky blinked at him and then sighed. “You and Viktor wanted to go to Milan, right?”

“Yes. Would be nice if you would come too,” Viktor said.

“We won’t,” Plisetsky said.

He and Otto were sitting quite close together, their fingers intertwined.

“We’ve been talking about this a while ago, actually,” Otto said. “Thank you for your offer, but... if things don't work out for us here, America is the best place to go. It's free, when you work hard you will succeed and...”

“No kings, no nobles,” Plisetsky added. “In Milan it would still be the same as here, right?”

“I don't know,” Yuuri admitted. “I have been gone for over a year and news from Milan were always excluding politics.”

Plisetsky nodded. “Hm.”

“Are your minds made up?” Viktor asked.

Plisetsky and Otto exchanged a glance and then they both nodded. “Yes, pretty much,” Plisetsky said. “Sorry.”

“No way of convincing you otherwise?”

Plisetsky sighed deeply and almost regretfully. “I am afraid not. Sorry.”

Viktor nodded and lowered his head. When Yuuri touched his shoulder he could feel him tremble.

Plisetsky shot him a long, almost begging look and Yuuri mumbled, “Uh, I think I'll take a look around the house, what do you think? Can we go outside our rooms?”

“I suppose so,” Otto mumbled. “On the chance the staff will take us for thieves and robbers and try to kill us on the spot.”

“I'm willing to take that risk,” Yuuri said, getting up from the bed and heading for the door.

He heard Otto's steps following him and when the door was closed in their backs he asked, “How long have you two thought about it?”

“Quite a while now. We've been discussing it one way or another – Yura doesn't want to be stuck in Dresden forever and the opera scene over there is pretty small and young as far as we've heard. Plenty a chance to make his mark.”

Listening, Yuuri took in the decoration of the hallway. French, he judged, very, very French, the kind of French that conjured up images of Versailles and gilt-framed baroque portraits and ladies in the highest, puffiest wigs imaginable.

“He would have that chance anywhere,” he said.

“In Europe it's the same wherever you go,” Otto said. “It's the same unrest, the same insecurity, the same...” He waved his hand. “Maybe England would be nice and quiet, but...”

“Monarchy?”

“Anti-republicanism,” Otto corrected him. “I don't mind kings when they do it right. Most kings don't, though, that's the problem. Maybe it would be better to get rid of all of them, good and bad alike, that way we wouldn't risk a bad one mucking things up.”

“Ah. Geep ze guillotine a'ay from me,” they heard.

Turning around they spotted Ilroi coming towards them, dressed for a day in in a fine, but quite simple vest and shirt. His hair was shining with wetness and there was a spot of shaving cream on his chin. “I 'ope ze accomodations are to 'our satisfaction?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you very much,” Yuuri answered.

Otto next to him had turned beet red. “I didn't mean...”

“Ah, but zat iz 'ow zeze zings go. Abolish ze monarchy but let ze monarchs live, zen rea'lize zat 'ou cannot do so wizout rizging zem goming bagg to power. So 'ou water ze fields of ze republic wiz ze blood of ze innocents along wiz zat of ze king and qeen.”

Otto was silent.

“How did you get out there anyways?”, Yuuri asked. “They were in the audience. I would think they had also blocked some hallways.”

“Oui,” Ilroi said and lifted his chin. “So?”

“It must have been quite an ordeal,” Yuuri said.

“Oui.” Ilroi shook his head. “Zese revolts are zuch a bad 'abit, right?”

Yuuri didn't answer.

“At zis point I 'ould 'ave zought zese people in zeir castles and palaces 'ad learned 'hat 'appenz to zose 'ho zink zemselves accountable to no'one.”

It was faszinating how silly even the most intelligent conversation could sound if it was brought up in a terrible french accent.

Next to Yuuri Otto's shoulders unclenched.

“I still do not approve of zis,” Ilroi went on, “which iz 'hy I will rob Dresden of my presence and move on .”

“Oh,” Yuuri made.

“Oui. The theatre now 'az lozt its last interesting singer. Zere iz nozing left 'ere for me.” Ilroi lifted a handkerchief to his brow and dabbed it despite there being now sweat on it. “I will gat'er information on 'ere to go and 'ow to go zere. Let me know any deztination 'ou 'ave in mind.”

Yuuri nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Oui. You will stay then until 'ou leave? Oui? Bon, I will see zat zome clothes will altered for 'ou. Don't zank me. It iz less luggage. Now go. Ze library iz to ze left!”

With a wave of his hand he was gone and Otto and Yuuri stared after him.

“I honestly hope he doesn't expect thanks for his old shirts,” Otto sighed. “We have enough money to our name each to pay him for new ones.”

Yuuri shrugged. “Entertain him for a bit. We'll need the money more to get away anyway. Let's see if he has something bearable to read.”

 

They had stayed for two days already, careful to not be in the way too much, careful not to be a nuisance to the staff, careful not to be seen or heard when Ilroi had an occasional guest calling on him.

Two days without news.

But also two days of listening to distant, so, so distant gunshots, so distant that sometimes Yuuri wondered if they were just in his imagination.

“It is terrible,” Miss Isabeau Chang sighed at one of the rounds smattered in the distance, “such a disgrace. And why don't they use quieter firearms?”

At least it gave Yuuri the secure knowledge that he didn't imagine the shots.

Then Ilroi had some news and was more than willing to share them after dinner, when they were lounging in the drawing room. He was filling their wine glasses himself and – also by himself – made sure that they were never running empty.

They direly needed it.

The theatre had been run over – of course, what else, Yuuri thought – but more importantly, at least to Ilroi, was that the uprising hadn't gone well in other areas as well.

“Loog'z like ze police 'as gwite suggzessful in cracking down on zem,” he remarked over tea.

Strange how distant this all seemed from here. It seemed only moments ago that they had run from the theatre, but here, on the other side of the Elbe, it also seemed like it was such a long time ago.

“Do you have any knowledge of whom they captured?” Plisetsky asked.

Ilroi shook his head. “Non.”

Plisetsky bit his lips and Viktor squeezed his shoulder. “I am sure he made it out alright.”

Plisetsky nodded curtly.

“He knows the theatre better than anyone else,” Viktor continued. “I am sure he could hide somewhere and wait it out.”

“I zink zo too,” Ilroi threw in. “I do, Yuri, 'onestly.”

“I would like him to know,” Plisetsky sighed. “He should know, don't you think, that we leave?”

“He should,” Viktor said, moving his hand over Plisetsky's shoulder. “He really should.”

“That might be difficult,” Miss Iabeau commented, “the way you told it, it does sound like you were involved in that incident, maybe know something about it.”

Otto squirmed in his chair and looked down on his plate.

“You were a favourite of Richard Wagner, too, Yuri,” Ilroi said and now he dropped his accent again. “Mr. Katsuki is not, but he is friends with you, so who knows what authorities will make of him. As far as I have heard, both Mr. Wagner and Mr. Semper are wanted. Charged with treason, I suppose?”

“Ha!” Viktor exclaimed gleefully.

IIroi raised an eyebrow. “I take it then, you are not friends with him.”

“Most certainly not,” Viktor declared.

“ I cannot possibly blame you for that,” Ilroi said, “ have you seen that ridiculous hat of his?”

“Yes, I have,” Viktor sighed. “Put some eggs in it.”

“Raw, I hope.”

“Of course,” Viktor huffed, “but also I would like to mention that his hat was the smallest offence he had committed.”

“I suppose.” Ilroi sighed. “What are your plans for the next steps?”

“Getting out of Dresden,” Otto said.

“How?” Miss Isabeau asked.

They were silent.

“Well, I had a plan,” Yuuri finally admitted. “but that blew up, I suppose.”

“I see.” She pressed her lips firmly together. “Well then. Too bad. We will be leaving soon.”

“A smart move,” Otto said. “And rather understandable.”

“Where would you go, though?” Yuuri asked.

“Around. Traveling is a nice way to wile away time.” Ilroi took a sip of his wine. “We first would head to Bavaria. Munich is a nice city. A little small, maybe. Quite provincial, but as we can see with Dresden, that does not necessarily equal boring. After that, who knows. I think we will for a while enjoy a rather bohemian lifestyle, it will be so much fun.”

“Yes, it will, surely,” Miss Isabeau agreed with a very thin mouth.

“Until Munich though, we will travel with some staff. I think four men will do and of course Isabeau's maid.”

Yuuri counted in his head. “You have only two manservants,” he then said.

“I do? Well, oh dear,” Ilroi sighed. “And these two are needed here to take care of the house while I am gone.”

“You're actually planning to come back here?” Viktor asked, “Are you sure?”

“Well, I like Dresden. I grew up here,” Ilroi said, “I would like to come back somewhat soon, once things had calmed down again. Until then I think it might be nice to be a leaf in the wind, wander around, slum it a bit, maybe, that sounds like fun, right?”

Miss Isabeau made a face that clearly spoke of how she begged to differ, but she said nothing and after a moment even smiled. “Well, everything is a joy to experience as long as it is with you, my love,” she said.

Ilroi took her hand between his own and kissed it. “And I love you for it, my darling.”

Now Miss Isabeau smiled in earnest.

He looked around. “What did you say? I only have two man servants?”

“Well, we only saw your butler and the groom,” Plisetsky said.

“Yes, indeed. And both of them will be needed here to take care of the house. I will need four more man servants, I think.”

Yuuri nodded.

Viktor nodded.

Otto nodded.

Plisetsky said, “You offer us a way out then?”

“I think so,” Ilroi drawled.

“And what would you want in return?” Plisetsky asked further.

“Oh, nothing,” Ilroi said, “nothing big, that is.”

Plisetsky raised an eyebrow.

“Sing for me, will you?” Ilroi asked. “I will not hear you on stage anymore. It is quite a loss.”

“I won't stay away from the stage for long,” Plisetsky said, “I won't be singing here anymore, though.”

“That's good to know,” Ilroi said. “It would be a shame otherwise.”

“I know,” Plisetsky said. “What do you want to hear?”

“Your choice,” Miss Isabeau said. “I would appreciate something uplifting, though.”

“Mr. Katsuki, your _Va, Pensiero_ is always a pleasure to hear,” Ilroi said.

“Thank you very much,” Yuuri mumbled, “I’m not sure how you would consider this one uplifting though.”

Ilroi shrugged. “I like it. Mr. Nikiforov, I never heard you sing, I suppose.”

“I left the stage a good while ago,” Viktor said.

“Then please feel free to join the entertainment. Mr. Becker, you too,” Ilroi declared.

Otto shook his head. “Not a singer unless in a pub after a healthy amount of beer. I leave it to people who are paid for it and are accordingly good at it.”

“Wise, wise,” Ilroi said, “Mr. Katsuki, would you like to begin?”

No choice for him then, huh? Yuuri sighed.

Viktor gave his hand a quick squeeze. “ _Va, Pensiero_ was the song that really caught my attention,” he admitted, “I would like to hear it once more.”

Yuuri smiled up to him. “Alright.

He took a few breaths and then hummed a few notes to warm up his voice.

“Va, pensiero, sull’ali dorate; va, ti posa sui clivi, sui colli,” he then began.

Viktor took his hand while he sang and squeezed it gently.

“O mia patria sì bella e perduta! O membranza sì cara e fatal!” Home, home, he would go soon to the place that came closest to home. Maybe this time around it would be a home, one he could build with Viktor.

He ran a finger over Viktor's palm as he heard him softly, softly, a sweet, warm murmur behind him. “O simile di Solima ai fati traggi un suono di crudo lamento, o t’ispiri il Signore un concento che ne infonda al patire virtù.”

He breathed out the last note and then closed his eyes for a moment.

“Wonderful,” Miss Isabeau sighed, dabbing her eyes. “Not exactly uplifting, but wonderful nonetheless. Thank you.”

Ilroi took her hand and kissed her fingers with such honest affection that Yuuri felt he had to look away.

“But you are right, of course, my dear,” he then said. “I demanded it myself and I stand by my idea that it is a lovely song, wonderfully performed, too.”

Yuuri accepted the praise with a slightly forced smile that was only softened and turned genuine when Viktor pressed a kiss on the back of his hand.

“O Freunde, nicht diese Töne!” Viktor declared, baritone dropping as low as possible as he suggested more cheerful singing, leading in to the Ode to Joy, “sondern lasst uns angenehmere anstimmen und freudenvollere.”

“Freude!” Plisetsky sighed.

“Freude!” Yuuri added.

“Freude!” they cheered together.

“Freude schöner Götterfunken,” Viktor now led in, “Tochter aus Elisium! Wir betreten feuertrunken, Himmlische, dein Heiligthum!”

“Deine Zauber binden wieder was die Mode streng getheilt!” Yuuri and Plisetsky joined in, “alle Menschen werden Brüder, wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.”

They repeated the verse, while Viktor nodded to Yuuri, who then continued the song. “Wem der grosse Wurf gelungen, eines Freundes Freund zu sein, wer ein holdes Herz errungen,

Mische seinen Jubel ein!” He squeezed Viktor's hand as he changed the third line to be about a dear heart, rather than a precious woman and noticed that Plisetsky was leaning a little closer to Otto.

“Ja wer auch nur eine Seele Sein nennt auf dem Erdenrund! Und wers nie gekonnt, der stehle weinend sich aus diesem Bund.”

They again repeated the last verse together before Plisetsky had his turn.

He decided to ditch “Freude trinken alle Wesen” and instead had the cheek instead sing another verse of the original poem by Friedrich Schiller. “Freude heißt die starke Feder in der ewigen Natur. Freude, Freude treibt die Räder in der großen Weltenuhr, Blumen lockt sie aus den Keimen, Sonnen aus dem Firmament, Sphären rollt sie in den Räumen, die des Sehers Rohr nicht kennt.“

Yuuri grinned and shook his head and Viktor chuckled next to hime. The idea behind the verse was the same of the “Freude trinken alle Wesen”, but it lacked several of the more carnal connotations, along with the implication that the according desires were base and primitive. Instead, joy was the driving will behind life, the world, the movement of the stars, joy was, in essence, God.

Yuuri liked it.

They repeated the last verse together and then, once more more, the beginning.

When they reached “Deine Zauber binden wieder, was die Mode streng geteilt” he firmly squeezed Viktors hand and Viktor returned the gesture.

They sounded so right together, perfect, heavenly - joyous.

When the last note had rang out , perfect, heavenly - joyous.

When the last note was finished Miss Isabeau sighed and clapped her hands. “Yes, yes, this was lovely, such a delight!”

“It's a delight singing it,” Viktor grinned, holding Yuuri's hand. “The one prayer I would always and ever get behind.”

“Joy is the only deity worth worshipping anyway,” Ilroi declared, lifting the wine bottle and looking around for glasses to be extended at the other.

Viktor held his one out.

Ilroi happily filled it.

“Yes, joy,” Viktor sighed. “Joy and all the things that bring her to us. May we never loose them.” He raised his look to Yuuri, smiling so warmly that Yuuri felt his face grow warm as he made his decision.

“No,” he said, “no, we won't.”

Viktor smiled even brighter and Yuuri nodded to himself. It was the right decisision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like what I did with JJ. I really do. And in the edit he's still getting the axe, though I might use him for something else... he was too much fun to write to gather dust now.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, finally, finally.   
> They'll all be okay.

Chapter 34

 

And then, one short month later, it was time.

One short month later they had left Dresden for Munich. One short month later they were here, one day after Ilroi and Miss Isabeau had already left for Budapest.

They stood at the main post office while carriages around them being readied and Viktor had his arms tightly around Plisetsky, as if refusing to let him go.

Plisetsky’s fingers were hooked into the woolen coat over Viktor’s shoulders and he had buried his face against the crook of his neck.

“You will write, yes?” Viktor asked, “Write to us, whenever you can, most importantly when you land there, yes? Keep us up to date, yes?”

Yuuri saw Plisetsky nod wordlessly.

Otto looked around. “I think we should go now,” he then said, “that looks like our carriage.”

Plisetsky nodded against Viktor's shoulder and finally released his grip.

He turned to Yuuri.

For a moment they stared at each other in somewhat awkward silence.

Then Yuuri smiled and raised his arms.

Plisetsky tumbled against him and hugged him for a long time.

Yuuri reciprocated. “Thank you,” he found himself whispering, “thank you for everything. Be safe, will you?”

Plisetsky nodded. “I will.”

“As Viktor said, write.”

“You too.”

“We will.”

“Send them to the Scala,” Yuuri continued, “We'll let you know our address once we have a place to live, but until then just send them there.”

Plisetsky nodded. “You’ll take care of him?” he finally asked.

“I will.”

“Thank you.” He now let go of Yuuri so he and Otto could shake hands.

Viktor ran a hand over his eyes and then smiled. “Also, Yura, please know that you can always come to me if you ever find yourself unhappy, yes? At the very least I could do something about the reason for your unhappiness.”

Otto raised an eyebrow. “No offense, but if I ever make him that angry, Mr. Nikiforov, _you_ are the least of my concerns.”

Plisetsky firmly took Otto's hand. “Thanks for the offer, but...”

“I know.” Viktor raised a hand and ran it through Plisetsky's hair. “But the offer stands regardless of your current happiness. Just come by if you ever can.”

“I will.” Plisetsky swallowed. “We'll let you know when we arrive in New York and where we are headed next. You write us too, yes?”

Viktor laughed. “Of course, I have to report everything I learn about Italian cuisine that is _not_ Sara's favourite wines and liquors.”

“Good. And...” Plisetsky swallowed once more. “And if you hear anything about Yakov...”

“We will tell you,” Yuuri promised. “Same goes for you, if it comes to that.”

Again, Plisetsky nodded. “Thanks.” He swallowed and tightened his grip around Otto's hand.

“It's really time now,” Otto said gently.

Plisetsky nodded again. He bit his lip, lowered his head and then, again, nodded. “It’s time,” he confirmed softly.

Viktor and Yuuri escorted them to the carriage that would carry them through several German countries and then through France.

They watched them hand the waivers Ilroi had procured for them to the coach man.

Then they were in, along with eight other passengers, and the door shut behind them.

Viktor craned his neck to get one last glimpse of Plisetsky and then the carriage rolled out and away and over the street.

He was gone. Plisetsky was gone.

Yuuri breathed in deeply.

Next to him Viktor was shaking a little.

“Are you alright?”

“I feel like a mother that sent out her only child to make his fortune in the world,” Viktor mumbled, voice thick and heavy with unshed tears.

Yuuri smiled and gently liked their arms.

In two hours their own carriage would set out to bring them to Vienna first. Then from Vienna they could make their way to Klagenfurt, then to the region of Venetia and then, finally, Milan.

Until then they could wait in the small inn that was linked to the post office and that took care of the tired travellers in need of refreshment.

They sat down in silence and only after Yuuri had ordered two coffees for them and the serving girl left them alone in their little corner, Viktor allowed a few tears to leave his eyes.

“He will be alright,” he said.

“Definitely,” Yuuri agreed. “He's a tough one and he's not alone. He'll get through anything.”

“And Otto will have an eye on him.”

“Yes, he will.” Under the table he took Viktor's hand. “They'll write. We'll hear everything about them taking America by storm.”

Viktor laughed a little.

“In return we can tell them everything about Milan. You can describe the city to him. And the faces Mila and Sara will make when we show up all of a sudden.” He chuckled. “I'm looking forward to that one, honestly.”

Viktor laughed a little more. “Oh God, yes.”

Their coffee came and for a few moments they revelled in the fact that this was actually the real thing, no adulteration or stretching whatsoever.

“Should have stayed the night here when I had a layover on my way to Dresden,” Yuuri sighed. “Instead I took a shack down the road and I still think I brought some Bavarian fleas and bed bugs with me to Dresden.”

Viktor laughed thickly and wetly. “Maybe we will have a chance to go back there. In that case we have a good reference point already.”

“I hope so.” Yuuri ran his thumb over the back of Viktor's hand. “I wonder who we should see first. The girls or Celestino.”

Viktor reciprocated the gesture. “The girls would be fun. But the man who raised you is more important, if you ask me.”

“Hm.” Yuuri's stomach churned a little. “I am not quite sure what he will say, though. Or at least what he will make of you.”

“I will like him,” Viktor declared, “whether he wants it or not, I will most definitely like him.”

Yuuri laughed. “What makes you so sure?”

“He raised you. I cannot believe that the man who put you on your path is someone I will not like.”

“Despite him having bought me?” Yuuri teased.

“Yes. I do despise the very idea, but I acknowledge that there was probably no other way to help you.” Viktor inched just a little closer to him. “And about him liking me – well, I will do my very best to achieve that. For a start, I will of course get a position as a singer at the _Scala_ and then I will convince him with my voice and my emotive performance. Not to mention my incredible skills as a playwright and composer, especially considering _Russalka_ was not written in my mother tongue.” He smiled at Yuuri and then hid it behind his cup of coffee. “After gaining his professional approval I do hope that he will also start to like me personally, based on how happy you are with me.”

Yuuri would have loved to kiss him. He couldn’t, so instead he squeezed his hand under the table.

Viktor then paused and furrowed his brow. “That is…” He shot an inquiring look to Yuuri. “That is - I should not presume - I do make you happy, right?” He swallowed. “Do I?”

Yuuri bit his lips and then nodded. “You do. Very happy.” His eyes were strangely foggy, and he blinked rapidly to clear them.

Next to him Viktor heaved a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank goodness, love, I was starting to… well, I was not worrying, but considering…”

“Not worrying? Good.” Yuuri took a low, deep breath. “Instead you can focus on worrying how to reconcile your own rehearsal schedule and your workload with my singing lessons.”

Viktor blinked. “What?”

Yuuri smiled tentatively. “Well. Can’t have me reinstated at the _Scala_ and aiming for a lead solo part without practising without my tutor and future favourite counterpart, right?”

“What?” Viktor repeated.

“And…” Yuuri squeezed his hand. “And I don’t know whether I can keep up with you without your help, so if you wish to…”

“Oh, love.” Viktor swallowed hard and then put his arm from Yuuri’s hand under the table around his shoulder and pulled him close to himself. “Oh love, do not ever think that there is anything you cannot do if you put your mind to it.”

Yuuri had to blink again.

“But I will gladly keep on tutoring you. And we will both be so wonderful and so wonderful together and we will go down in history and…”

Yuuri burrowed his face in the crook of Viktor’s neck. “And we’ll be together.”

“That is the most important part.”

Yuuri closed his eyes, picturing it, a life in Milan, a life with Viktor, working with him, spending their days together, facing whatever the _Scala_ might throw at them.

The future had never looked more challenging, not even when he had left for Dresden.

To Yuuri it had never looked brighter.

 

~END~

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started plotting this little thing, inspired by a facebook post of a friend and far more mulled wine I care to admit (it was Christmas, I was at my parents' place, don't expect me to survive this in a state of sobriety) there were a few things I didn't expect.   
> 1st: That it would grow and take so long. I thought about maybe twelve chapters. What fool I've been.  
> 2nd: That it would grow so much on me. I've spent more than one and a half year on this. Writing wrapped up in early April and right now I'm about to finish editing the first half. It's been one hell of a time and I enjoyed every moment if it.  
> 3rd: That I'd actually at some point would say "You know what, if a poorly written, poorly researched Twilight fanfic about abuse disguised and presented as BDSM can get published and successful, the odds are kinda sorta in my favour." (that point came when it was obvious I had to include Richard Wagner.)
> 
> And 4th that I'd meet so much love and support and encouragement from you all.   
> Thank you. Thank you all so much. I loved writing this story from day one and you made that love grow every time you let me hear your thoughts. I don't know whether I could have finished "Sing for me" without you.  
> Thank you for your patience, for your comments, for your time spent here.   
> I am truly honoured to have had you for an audience.


End file.
